Warning Signs Read Desolation
by minidraken
Summary: Trying to protect the Philosopher's Stone, Harry is kidnapped by Voldemort, who uses Legilimency on him and learns that he is a Horcrux. After that, Harry is forced to learn how to survive the violent and surreal reality of Voldemort's everyday life, and try his best to make it back to Hogwarts in one piece. Simultaneously, a war looms on the horizon. Grey!Harry Sane!Voldemort
1. Chapter 1

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter One

* * *

In front of him, jet black flames licked at the doorframe, casting a dark shadow over whatever lay within the next room. Trying not to think too much about it, taking a leap of faith, Harry tipped the small vial into his open mouth and swallowed. Just as Hermione had described it, a cold feeling seeped through his body, as if his insides were slowly turning into ice. He breathed in; he breathed out, and then took a quick step through the flames and into the last room.

Immediately, his eyes started to roam around the circular room, searching for Snape's lurking form amidst the heavy stone pillars that stood surrounding the middle of the room like a band of tree trunks. But what they found wasn't Professor Snape.

" _You!_ " Harry couldn't help but gasp, staring straight at Professor Quirrell, who in turn stood staring straight into the Mirror of Erised with a deep frown on his face. When he heard Harry's gasp, his head turned slowly towards him, and he was met with a pair of deep red eyes that were glinting with thoughtfulness.

"Me," Quirrell confirmed in a low voice, stretching his mouth into a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How kind of you to join me, Harry. Please," he said calmly, stretching his hand out in a beckoning gesture, "come here."

Unsure of what to do, not familiar with his professor's demeanour at all, Harry started to back away. "But I thought – Snape –"

A staggering force slowly wrapped itself around him, halting his retreating movement at first and then reversing it, propelling him forwards instead. To his great dismay, he soon stood close enough to Quirrell to get a whiff of the funny smell that seemed to come from the heavy, purple turban on his head. "Now," his professor said calmly, as if nothing at all was amiss, "tell me what you see, Harry."

With slight panic, Harry realised before it happened what he would see in the mirror, but it was too late. His deep desire to find the Philosopher's Stone before Quirrell got his hands on it betrayed him, and he had to watch as his reflection became animated. A heavy load landed in his left jeans pocket and he settled on the furious resolve not to look down at it, whatever it took.

Deep red eyes, just like those of his darkest nightmares, were studying his reflection from over his shoulder. "Well?" Quirrell, who most likely wasn't actually Quirrell at all, intoned quietly.

Harry swallowed to moisten his impossibly dry throat and resolved to lie. "I see my family," he invented, trying to sound convincing. "They're standing behind me, alive."

Slowly, a mocking smile spread Quirrell's mouth wide, and his horrible laugh rang colder than the potion Harry had drunk to land himself in this situation. "Good try, but I'm afraid our little game is over," Quirrell said cruelly and flipped him around with one claw-like hand clutching onto his jaw.

For one moment, all Harry knew were those dark red eyes boring into his own with cruel intent, the next, everything turned into excruciating pain. But it was over just as quickly as it had started, and when Harry's eyesight cleared he could see that Quirrell had leapt away from him and now stood studying his left hand with horrified wonder. It looked burnt; raw, red and shiny.

With quick movements, weaving his wand over the hand in fluid movements, Quirrell started to chant. Before Harry's disbelieving eyes, the skin knitted itself together, lightening the colour of the hand until it looked just as it had before. Harry then realised with horrifying clarity that this man was invincible and that he was a fool to think that mere luck would save him again.

He started to run for the exit, but didn't make it very far until his limbs completely froze on the spot, mid-leap. As he fell painfully on his side, he felt with great dismay how the stone slipped out of his pocket, along with his wand, and saw in the corner of his eye how they zoomed across the room and straight into the open palm of Quirrell's now completely restored left hand.

"Thank you, Harry, for helping me in this. I could never have done it without you," Quirrell spoke softly in a mocking voice that made Harry grind his teeth together at the unfairness of it all. "I must admit, you are ... full of surprises," he continued in a soft murmur, staring at him in a sort of hungry way that gave Harry chills of terror. "I am sorry that I am taking such liberties with you, Harry, but it appears that I still have need of you."

Harry tried his best to flee as he saw Quirrell move towards him, wand pointed straight at his face, but the full body-bind curse held him firmly locked in place. "I hope you won't think ill of me for the crudeness of what I am forced to do now, Harry, but time is not on our side and I don't seem to be able to touch you without harming us both."

Harry steeled himself for death, hoping for it to be swift and painless, as a spell zoomed towards him from the tip of his professor's wand. As it hit him, he was engulfed by a stark feeling of disorientation, and when he came to, the room had become impossibly bigger. He could feel his fuzzy paws pressed up uncomfortably against the slim bars of a crude cage and looked up to see a horrifyingly huge hand clutching at the handle on top of it.

He watched with huge eyes as Quirrell made a sweeping wand movement, effectively banishing both the black and the purple flame from hindering their exit, before lifting off the ground and zooming through the air in a way that Harry could only describe as flying. Room after room rushed past them, and soon, they were up the trap door, past the second floor corridor and through a large window that helpfully opened up for them just as they were about to crash into it.

As they flew across the school grounds with aim at the great, hog-guarded gates, Harry felt his long ears flap in the whistling night air and wondered to himself what would become of him now. He didn't have much time to think on it, however, before they were outside of the school grounds and onto solid ground again. Harry got one last look at the grand castle where he had finally found a home before his entire being was squished together and turned inside-out in a way that wasn't painful per se, but which made him want to throw up.

He managed to hold it in, as it turned out, when they appeared at the porch of a very old and very run-down building. The dust-grey door swung open for them, admitting their entrance into the old dilapidated mansion. The first room was a dark entrance hall with a high ceiling from which a chandelier filled to the rim with cobweb hung. To the right was a heavy, wooden staircase, leading up to what looked like a balustrade on the first floor, and to the left was a open door way that opened up into what looked like a reception room.

There was a sudden tap on the top of the cage, and Harry felt his muscles relax as the full body-bind curse was lifted and he could move freely again. He was still locked in the cage though, and he was still a rabbit.

"I apologise for the poor accommodations, Harry," Quirrell said, sounding absurdly cheerful, "but I am afraid it will be necessary for a time. Do not worry yourself, though, I will make sure you are being appropriately cared for."

* * *

Five days later, Harry was still a rabbit.

He was currently lodged in a small cottage a little bit away from the mansion, which was in much better shape and inhabited by an old muggle man. This house could even be described as cosy, in a way, and despite being held captive against his will by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry had to begrudgingly admit that he was indeed being appropriately cared for – in the lights of being a small critter, that was. His cage had been enlarged to some extent, enabling him to move around a bit, and he had constant access to fresh vegetables, which suited his new sense of taste just fine.

The Muggle left much to be desired, however, as he had turned out to be a grumpy old man with no patience for either children or small animals. Harry was thankfully left alone for most part, but others weren't as lucky. One night, a couple of kids from the nearby village had tried to sneak into the mansion for a bit of fun. But the old man had chased them off with dark threats to their lives that had reached Harry's sound sensitive ears inside of the cottage. Ever since that occurrence, the man had taken to mutter under his breath about the rudeness of kids and what should be done to them – ideas which made it hard for a small rabbit to sleep during the nights.

Thankfully, Harry was mostly left to his own devices since his caretaker took great pleasure in maintaining the mansion's grand garden during the day, apparently refusing to abandon his former position as gardener even though nobody lived in the mansion any more. He had also been completely abandoned by Professor Quirrell it seemed since he hadn't seen a glimpse of him ever since coming to this place. He couldn't help but wonder, of course, what would happen to him now. The lonesome nature of his captivity allowed for a lot of contemplation, but whatever way his thoughts started out, he would always end up at the same conclusion – that he was going to be killed at the hands of the man who murdered his parents.

Mulling over these dark thoughts, he was a bit startled when his peace was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the Muggle. He was more startled still when the man stepped up to his cage, opened it up and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. As he was hoisted into the air, he did his best to struggle free, but was only clutched in a tighter grip against the Muggle's chest and then unceremoniously carted off towards the dark mansion where his nemesis dwelled. They didn't head into the house, however, but around it, and then over a hill towards a dark forest where the skeletal form of an old church and its graveyard could be seen.

They made way over the hill and through the graveyard, coming to an opening in the middle of it where a huge cauldron stood, steaming of billowing smoke and sending off sparks into the air. Quirrell's hunched form stood stirring with a huge wooden ladle, and his eyes were back to the dusty brown colour Harry was used to. The Muggle stopped right next to the cauldron, and immediately Quirrell flicked his wand this way and that, and in a flurry of motion, Harry felt his form change back into that of an eleven-year-old boy. Before he could attempt anything though, vicelike hands clamped down on his upper arms, preventing his immediate escape.

With quick movements, Quirrell picked out a small leather pouch from one of his robe pockets, took a pinch of the red dust inside it and sprinkled it into the cauldron. The liquid inside instantly turned from opaque to blood red.

"N-n-now, m-m-master," Quirrell stuttered, and flickered his eyes around wildly as a sort of shadow slipped out from behind a big yew tree and into the bubbling surface that was now alight with so many sparks it looked like the liquid might have been made out of rubies. A hiss sounded from the concoction just as Quirrell raised his wand and closed his eyes.

" _B-bone of the father, unknowingly g-g-given, you will renew your s-son!_ "

The surface of the grave to Harry's right cracked. Horrified, he watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Quirrell's command, and fell softly into the cauldron. The ruby surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions, and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

And now Quirrell was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his robes. His voice broke into petrified, stuttering sobs. " _F-f-flesh – o-o-of the s-servant – w-willingly given – you w-w-will – revive – your m-m-master._ "

He stretched his left hand out in front of him – the hand that had been scorched and healed five days ago. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his right hand, and swung it upwards.

Harry realised what Quirrell was about to do a second before it happened – and closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block out the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Quirrell's anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn't bear to look ... but the potion had turned a burning red. The light of it shone through Harry's eyelids.

Quirrell was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Quirrell's anguished breath on his face did he realise that he was right in front of him. " _B-blood of th-th-the enemy_ _... f-f-forcefully taken ... you w-will ... resurrect your f-foe."_

Harry struggled furiously in the Muggle's grip, but could do nothing to prevent it. His eyes opened wide as he felt the sharp point of the silver dagger penetrate the crook of his right arm, and he screamed in pain as his blood flowed out and into a glass phial that Quirrell pressed to the cut with his shaking right hand.

Once he was done, Quirrell staggered back to the cauldron and poured the blood inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Quirrell, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

The cauldron had stopped emitting sparks and a surge of white steam had instead started billowing out of it, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Quirrell or the cauldron or anything but vapour hanging in the air. But then, from the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

"Robe me," said the cold voice from behind the steam calmly, and Quirrell, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feat, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head.

The tall, dark-haired man stepped out of the cauldron, and started examining his new body. His long, pale fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his haggard but handsome face, and ran through his thick, wavy hair; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cat's, gleamed still more brightly against the paleness of his skin. He held up his hands, and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant, before dipping his left one into a deep robe pocked and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently, too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Quirrell, who watched his every movement with wide eyes.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort said quietly.

"Oh, m-master ... th-thank you, master ..." Quirrell stuttered in great relief, extending the bleeding stump. Voldemort examined it quickly and then turned to look straight at the Muggle who was still standing stoically, holding Harry fast.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort commanded again, and the Muggle did as told, and didn't utter a sound as Voldemort made a cutting motion with his wand and the hand unceremoniously fell off by the wrist. "Pick it up," Voldemort then commanded, and Quirrell hastily complied, holding it up to his stump as if he wished to fasten it there to replace his own.

Apparently, that was what Voldemort was aiming to do, Harry realised with great disgust, as the Dark Lord started chanting and weaving his wand back and forth over the hand and stump, slowly knitting them together. But that was not all, Harry soon realised, because the longer Voldemort chanted, the more the hand started to look like Quirrell's real hand. Once he fell silent, it looked exactly like Quirrell's other hand and only a thin, red scar around the wrist was left as proof of what had transpired.

Flexing his fingers experimentally, turning the hand this way and that, Quirrell looked stunned with relief and gratitude as he fell down on the ground the kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes. "My Lord," he whispered reverently. "M-master ... it is beautiful ... th-thank you ... _thank you_..."

"Let it be known that Lord Voldemort always rewards his faithful servants," Voldemort announced coldly, and then turned to look at the Muggle again with a thin smile on his palely pink lips. "You can let go of Harry now, Mr Bryce."

Harry felt how the Muggle took a step back from him, setting him free, but a quick glance from Voldemort's blood red eyes made him think better of trying to escape.

"Thank you, Mr Bryce, for your service," Voldemort said with a smile that looked almost kind. Then, he levelled his wand on the Muggle and said, in a clear voice, _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Harry didn't react fast enough to close his eyes before he saw a sharp green light that hit the Muggle man straight in the chest, but then he did and thankfully didn't have to see the rest. As he heard the dull thud of the body hitting ground, he could feel tears, not of sadness, but of fear, start travelling down his cheeks. Would he be next? Was it time?

"Quirrell," said Voldemort quietly a few paces away, "put Mr Bryce to bed. Make it seem like he died in his sleep, and the Muggles will not suspect a thing. Leave no trace behind; not one drop of blood."

"Yes, m-master," Quirrell replied and then hurried to transport the corpse back to the cottage, judging by the sounds of it. Since he was completely focused on what happened to Mr Bryce, Harry was startled badly when a cold hand laid itself against the right side of his face, running its thumb across his cheek to wipe away his tears.

"Is it my turn now?" Harry whispered thickly. He could feel the hand leave his face and run down to his elbow, holding it firmly in a grip that made new pain sparkle alive. Harry's eyes snapped open just as Voldemort began chanting again, making his weaving wand movement, effectively healing the wound in the crook of the arm until no trace was left of it.

"There," Voldemort said, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Harry shook his head, wide-eyed, not sure how to reply to that. Voldemort didn't seem to need an answer though, but only took his arm in a firmer grip and pulled him closer. "Hold on tight," he instructed, "we're past due leaving this place, I am afraid. Dumbledore has already started sniffing around these parts for you. It won't take him much longer to find this place."

And with that, Voldemort twisted them around and Harry felt, once again, how his whole body was squished together as if he was travelling through a tight rubber tube, before landing in some completely different place. Gone were the sombre tombstones and open grass fields, replaced by cold stone cliffs next to a foaming, billowing sea reaching out towards the rose gold setting sun. Along the cliff edge ran a slim country road on which the only colour except a dull slate grey were the small clusters of little blue flowers that peaked up here and there. The road travelled upwards towards the highest point of the cliff edge, where an ancient-looking stone fortress stood, almost blending in with the surroundings.

"Where are we?" Harry wondered in a small voice, feeling how the success rate of his grand scheme of escape was diminishing by the second.

"Far up north," Voldemort answered while letting go of Harry's arm, instead opting to scan his surroundings for possible threats. Finding none, he smiled and turned back his attention to his young charge. "And just as I remembered it; perfectly isolated. It is located quite close to Azkaban, so not very many opt for settling down on these islands – not even ignorant Muggles."

Harry didn't know what Azkaban was, but he didn't feel inclined to ask about it either. All he wanted was to be back at Hogwarts, seated for dinner in the Great Hall, or perhaps out on the Quidditch pitch, or in the Gryffindor common room, playing chess with Ron. Instead, he was stuck on a far-off island with the darkest and most evil wizard of all time, who not only tortured and killed people, but also stole their body parts as gifts to his loyal servants. Harry was completely weirded out by the entire situation, and a bit queasy from teleporting (or whatever it was) as well as witnessing a cold-blooded murder.

Still, as Voldemort started walking towards the fortress, heeding him no mind whatsoever, Harry felt he had no other choice but to follow suit. After all, it was getting cold, he was tired and where would he go? He was on an uninhabited island with no boats or cars, and he still hadn't gotten his wand back. So, he resolved to just tag along for now and plan a sweet escape for a later time.

The both of them made it up to the front gate of the fortress just as a slow, ice-cold trickle had started to fall, obscuring the beautiful sunset from view just as it disappeared under the horizon. Just like at the old dilapidated mansion, the door, or double-doors in this case, fell open for them on their own volition. Suddenly recalling how the window at Hogwarts had done the same thing during Voldemort's flight, Harry was filled with curiosity. What sort of magic made a house animated without the use of either wand or incantation? He wasn't going to ask, of course, but he found it curious.

Inside, the entrance hall was dark and dingy, and no chandelier hung from this ceiling. There was a lot of open space, and the floor, walls and even the staircase was cast in the same slate grey stone that seemed to make up the entire island. Apart from a rusted old armour standing propped up in one corner of the room, the entire fortress seemed completely bare. There were no curtains, no paintings or rugs, chairs or tables; no warmth, really.

Voldemort seemed to be looking for something, however, and as he took the grand staircase up a level, Harry followed him without a word. There, he went straight through an open doorway and into a room that had, lo and behold, a very dusty green sofa standing in front of a completely cold, but grand, fireplace.

Doing a couple of sweeping motions and then flicking upwards with his wand, Voldemort successfully gathered all the dust and lifted it up off the sofa before banishing it completely. "Sit," he instructed, pointing his wand at one of the grand, grimy windows, which immediately flew open, letting in the cold ocean air. A moment later a thick log flew into the room, landing at Voldemort's naked feet, before jumping straight into the fireplace after another quick flick of the wand. The window closed itself as Voldemort stepped away from it towards the fireplace, where he spelled the log dry and then proceeded to set fire to it.

Instant warmth and light filled the room, making some of Harry's anxieties go away, being replaced by other ones almost instantly. What would happen to him now? What was Voldemort planning, and why hadn't he killed Harry yet?

"I must say," Voldemort said calmly whilst sitting down in the other end of the sofa, effectively startling Harry out of his dire musings, "you must be the most patient boy of your age. No escape attempts? No threats on my life? I admit to being a bit disappointed."

Flushing bright scarlet, Harry jumped off his seat. "What do you expect me to do?" he questioned hotly. "Swim back to Hogwarts? Fly? I don't even have a wand."

"So you're smarter than you look, I see. Well, at least that is reassuring," Voldemort replied easily, flashing him a cold smile that made Harry's anger boil up his throat.

"What the hell!" he shouted, beyond angry, beyond frightened; bordering on madness. "I'm not the one who uses my magic for evil – for murder – for forcing people into dark rituals – making them cut off their own hands –"

"No, and you're not an adult wizard who has to care for himself, because nobody else will," Voldemort stated calmly. "You're not in a position where you have to make hard decisions to protect yourself and the ones who are important to you."

"You're not _protecting_ people," Harry protested. "You're bloody _killing_ them!"

"I protected myself from dying," Voldemort replied challengingly, "and I protected Quirrell from bleeding out or living the rest of his life without a hand."

"By _stealing_ somebody else's hand!" Harry shouted, breathing heavily in pure outrage.

"He didn't need it anymore," Voldemort said, smiling ever so slightly.

"Because _you killed him_!" Harry retaliated, pointing an accusing finger at Voldemort. As he did so, the Dark Lord's demeanour completely changed and became ice cold as he arose from the sofa as well.

"He would have died anyway," Voldemort said, dangerously quietly, but Harry was too far gone now to stop shouting.

"YOU LIE!"

A horrible pain rushed through Harry's head, originating in his scar and travelling through his nerves all over his body. It felt like being on fire, and he felt more than heard himself scream out in agony. And then, it was over, just as suddenly as it had come.

Vision clearing, Harry found himself back on the sofa, Voldemort standing by the fireplace, watching him closely.

"He would have died anyway," the Dark Lord repeated in an excessively slow voice. "Muggle brains aren't designed to be heavily manipulated by magic. He would have suffered severe brain damage once the Imperious Curse was lifted and he would have died anyway."

"So you mixed with his brain?" Harry questioned angrily, but quietly this time, fearing more abuse.

"Yes, I had use of him. His fate was sealed ever since he saw us arrive at Riddle House. My only options were to either take him by force or kill him. And as I said, I had use of him."

"You could have just let him go," Harry contradicted, glaring at the Dark Lord.

"No, it is illegal for wizards to let Muggles wander off after they've witnessed magic. They could endanger the survival of the wizarding population," Voldemort explained, still studying him intently.

"So you could have just made him forget! You didn't have to kill him!" Harry said, feeling his temper rise again.

"Normally yes, but I was not in a position where I could afford to leave any trace behind," Voldemort declared pointedly, his eyes sending a silent warning for Harry to check his temper. "Like I said, I was protecting myself. And I was protecting _you_ , Harry."

And just like that, Harry lost control of himself again. "What!? You evil git! Do you think I'm stupid?" he shouted, standing up from his seat again. "You were _not_ protecting me!"

"SIT DOWN," Voldemort commanded in a deadly tone, startling Harry so badly that he did as told without thinking twice about it. "I am losing patience with you, Harry. I will not have you questioning me again. I have no reason to lie to you at this point so pay attention," he hissed viciously, his red eyes flashing dangerously. "As you might recall, I was forced to invade your brain once it was apparent you were hiding the Philosopher's Stone from me, and what I did find was not only the answer to my question but something far more interesting than that."

Voldemort fell silent all of a sudden, falling back into his calm persona, staring out of the window for a few moments as if thinking to himself.

"Haven't you thought it curious ... the circumstances of how you received that scar? Have you not wondered how it is that a one-year-old toddler could best Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard of all time? How it is that I died and you survived?"

"Of course I have," Harry answered after a long silence had made it clear that Voldemort expected him to reply. "I figure it was just luck."

"Just luck," Voldemort scoffed with disdain, falling silent and studying his wand for another short moment, during which Harry sat squirming in his seat, wondering where this was going. "I have contemplated this for the past few days – ever since learning of your ... condition."

"What condition?" Harry asked worriedly.

"All in due time," Voldemort replied mysteriously and started pacing the room behind the sofa, so that Harry had to turn around in his seat to look at him. "How much has Dumbledore told you about me?"

Startled at the sudden question, Harry stuttered a reply without thinking. "I-I, nothing – I mean, Hagrid has told me some things, but I wouldn't say it's a lot –"

"Rubeus Hagrid?" Harry nodded uncertainly, gaining himself a scoff from Voldemort. "That oaf doesn't know anything of importance."

"Hagrid's not an oaf!" Harry protested at once, but didn't press the issue after another nasty glare from the Dark Lord's cat-like eyes.

"Since you have no previous knowledge, we will settle for the simplified explanation for the moment," Voldemort declared, as if he was doing Harry a big favour. "As you perchance have noticed, I am immortal. I do not die as others do when their bodies are destroyed. I survive."

Harry swallowed deeply, feeling a tremor of fear at that notion, but not finding it surprising after all he had seen transpire so far.

"On the night of my vanquishing, it was my intention to rid myself of a great foe while strengthening myself in the process."

"A great foe? Do you mean my father?" Harry asked venomously, glaring daggers at his parents' murderer.

"Not your father," Voldemort disagreed, completely ignoring Harry's spikiness. "You."

" _Me_?" Harry asked in wonder, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to emit raw hatred.

"I had reason to believe that you, Harry, would be the bane of my existence – my greatest nemesis whom would have the power to actually kill me."

"But, I was a _baby_ ," Harry said in great disbelief.

"Better to strike when your opponent is weak than when he is at full strength," Voldemort answered.

"That's bloody weird!" Harry objected. "Why would you think that a _baby_ was your greatest enemy?"

"I might tell you some day, but it is not important right now," Voldemort claimed and finally settled back at the fireplace, enabling Harry to sit comfortably again. "What is of import is that for all my intentions, something went wrong that night. You see, your mother defended you very heatedly, Harry, and what I think happened when I killed her –"

"No, don't do that," Harry objected, feeling queasy, "don't tell me how you murdered my parents –"

"Be quiet," Voldemort hissed at him with great impatience, "this is far more important than your petty, hurt feelings. I did what I had to do, and I think I have already proven to you that when I say I had no other choice but to kill someone, you should trust me on that account. So pay attention; when I killed your mother, I think the nature of her death registered with my wand as the initiating of a ritual. So when I turned my wand onto you, it was loaded to the rim with your mother's death, and wasn't in any condition to perform any other spell. So when I tried to kill you, my wand tried to make you into a ..."

Curiously, Voldemort cut himself off right there and cleared his throat, instantly making Harry suspicious. What wasn't he telling him? Didn't he say he had no reason to lie to him at this point?

"It tried to strengthen my immortality," Voldemort opted for after a short pause. "So, I believe that my wand did two things at once, and therefore, on one hand, the spell I had intended to use malfunctioned, which is why the Killing Curse rebounded onto myself. While on the other hand, the wand's spell was successful and as a result, it curiously made you immortal."

"It made me ... immortal?" Harry breathed out in pure disbelief. That couldn't be right, could it?

"You see this curse is dependent on a death to be successful, so when the Killing Curse bounced off you and onto me, you actually committed an act of murder. At least, that's how Magic sees it. And as a result, a part of you latched onto me while at the same time, a part of me latched onto you, which made us linked to each other. You see, if I die, a part of you dies with me. And if you die, a part of me dies with you. And this is what is so important, Harry," Voldemort exclaimed, almost feverishly, sitting down next to him in the sofa, making explanatory gestures with his hands as he was speaking.

"You see, don't you? By hiding you I was keeping us both safe. By extracting you from Hogwarts I made sure I could protect you. By using your blood in the ritual I made sure I could touch you without inflicting harm on either of us. You see, if people knew what you are, how important you are, you would be in grave danger."

"This ... none of this makes any sense," Harry said, burying his head in his hands against a building head-ache. "I can't be immortal. I can't be connected to you. You tried to kill me!"

"When?" Voldemort asked patiently. "When you were little, yes, but that was before any of this happened."

"Yes, but ... There's just ... You must be lying to me. There's something you're not telling me, I just know it!"

"There are a great deal of things I am not telling you, Harry. That does not mean that the things I am telling you are lies," Voldemort responded.

"But that means you're choosing not to tell me some things that could make things appear in a different light," Harry argued, "and that's worse than lying. That's manipulative!"

"Who taught you that?" Voldemort asked, sounding impressed. "That's quite some insight for a boy your age."

"Hermione lectured me about this at one point," Harry admitted impatiently, "and she's right, isn't she?"

"Yes and no," Voldemort answered cryptically. "Holding matters of importance back in favour of things of less importance as a strategy to get your own will would be classified as manipulative, yes. However, when you're not telling someone the details of which the other doesn't need to hear at that moment or which are of no import and no interest, I would rather say it is a kindness."

Harry wasn't sure he understood all of that, but he didn't want to appear stupid and thus inferior to his kidnapper. "So you're saying that there are things you're not telling me ... to be kind?"

"Indeed," Voldemort said, and looked like he was about to go into an even deeper explanation when there was a timid knock on the doorframe. Turning around in his seat, Harry saw it was Quirrell who stood in the door opening, sopping wet and with a big basket of food in his arms.

"M-m-master," he said, bending down onto one knee, "I have c-c-completed the t-tasks I was given. Mr Bryce is b-b-back in his b-bed, looking to-to be in d-deep sleep. And there is n-n-no trace left of us at all."

"Yes, that is very good, Quirrell," Voldemort praised in a cold voice, standing up and eyeing his servant up and down as he too arose. "But I can't help but wonder why you seem to have forgotten mid-way that you are a wizard and not a muggle brute who cannot shrink heavy loads into pocket size and keep rain from assaulting his body."

"I-I-I b-b-beg y-your p-p-pardon, m-master, I-I didn't th-th-think," Quirrell squeaked, stuttering worse than ever.

"No matter, Quirrell, it was merely meant as a question," Voldemort said with a small smirk that made Harry believe he enjoyed antagonising the other man on a quite personal level. "It is good that you have come, in fact. Can I count on you for another important mission, Quirrell?"

"Y-y-yes, naturally, m-m-master," Quirrell answered at once, looking eager to redeem himself after his small faux pas.

"Very good," Voldemort said, striding towards him slowly. "I need you to make sure Harry is properly fed, and then I need you to find him acceptable accommodation for the night. One of the bedrooms on the second floor should be passable."

"Oh ... O-o-of course, m-master, c-consider i-it d-done."

"Thank you, Quirrell. That is very good of you," Voldemort said, giving his servant a smile that actually looked genuine. That was, until the Dark Lord turned back to Harry, and the evil glint in his eyes came into view. "As I am sure you understand, our safety is of highest import at the moment, so I shall put up domed wards around the fortress, just in case."

"Do whatever you want," Harry replied, feeling a fair bit bolder now that it seemed Voldemort wouldn't be breathing down his neck for much longer.

"Oh, be assured, I always do," Voldemort replied smartly and turned to leave. Although, he stopped just at the top of the staircase, calling back to them as if with an afterthought. "Oh, and Quirrell? Please, make sure to remember this time that you in fact are a wizard. If the bed is dusty, clean it with magic, not by hand."

"Yes, m-m-master," Quirrell called back after a petrified pause. As the Dark Lord descended the staircase, Harry could swear he heard a chuckle travelling up to them through the open door.

Then, they were alone. Harry watched his old professor suspiciously as he visibly relaxed and wiped his forehead of perspiration. Apparently recalling that he was sopping wet, Quirrell pulled out his wand and traced it up and down his garments a couple of times until they were completely dry. As a finishing touch, he tapped the top of his turban until he deemed it dry enough for his liking.

"Are you all right, Potter?" he asked then with a quick glance over his shoulder as he bent down to pick up the basket of food from the floor.

"I'll live," Harry replied coldly, not feeling inclined to indulge his old professor when he so clearly was a wicked traitor.

"Good, good," Quirrell sighed with apparent relief as he carried the basked over to the sofa and sat himself down next to Harry on it. "Then he hasn't caused any more harm to you. That is good. Here, have some pie."

Too hungry to actually refuse food, Harry accepted the little, muffin-sized pie and waited patiently while Quirrell rapped it a couple of times with his wand to warm it up. Once he had started eating it, he didn't seem to be able to stop. He received two more pies after the first one, all of which he downed in record time. After that, Quirrell seemed to think better of giving him any more unless he made himself sick.

"Your stuttering is gone," Harry observed as the both of them were travelling up the grand staircase to the second floor in search for a nice bed for Harry to sleep in.

"What?" Quirrell said in surprise. "Oh, yes, well I didn't always stutter, mind. I find that the Dark Lord simply has that ... effect on me."

"But, you were always stuttering," Harry objected, "even when he wasn't there, remember? In school –"

"Oh, he was always there," Quirrell said, casting nervous looks around him as if frightened Voldemort was lurking in some shadow, spying on them. "Always. I made a mistake, with the Gringotts bank vault. So he decided to keep a closer look on me. Always after that ..."

"You don't seem very pleased," said Harry as they started travelling down the corridor, searching for a nice-looking room.

"Oh, oh, it isn't that!" Quirrell assured him. "I was just ... a bit overwhelmed. That is all – ah, well look here, this could work I'd wager?"

The room in question wasn't in the best of conditions, but Harry was far too tired to keep searching anyway, so he let Quirrell do his weak attempts at cleaning up the bed before diving into it, and then promptly fell asleep, just as he was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Two

* * *

Heavy rain splattered down onto his domed umbrella-ward as he trekked the dirty country road up to a shabby old mansion on the top of a hill. Riddle House, Dumbledore had called it. It wasn't the first possible hiding place on the list; not by far. In fact, ever since the lot of those obnoxious students had left Hogwarts in the morning, he had been dragged into this crazy scheme of hide and seek orchestrated by Dumbledore, who strongly believed that Potter would be hidden away at one of the Dark Lord's former strongholds. Problem was, the man had had many, and some of them they probably didn't even know of. As a result, he had been forced to travel from place to place, looking for clues of Potter's whereabouts.

Why Dumbledore couldn't just let the Aurors handle this, as was their job, was bothering him nastily. He had hoped to be let out of work by now, taking a well-deserved vacation after grading all those papers and horrifying attempts at potions for a solid four days straight. But no, instead he was out in the blasted rain, searching for Potter in the middle of the night, and by now, he was at the end of his tether.

If that ignorant, selfish and foolish _boy_ decided to put himself in danger, it was very well his own fault if he was captured because of it. It had been five, almost six, days since his disappearance, and so far, neither the Aurors nor Dumbledore himself had had any success in finding the boy. As far as Severus was concerned, Harry Potter was either dead or helplessly locked up somewhere where the Dark Lord very well could make sure no-one would ever find him. And since the boy had decided to simply shrug off everybody else's constant attempts at keeping him safe, heading straight into the arms of his mortal enemy, Severus found no reason at all to pity him or pray for his wellbeing.

He came to a stop at the front porch of the old dilapidated mansion and studied his surroundings with hawk-like precision. But as far as he could tell, there was nothing out of the ordinary; no signs of a struggle; no blood or tracks of any kind; what he did find interesting, however, was the state of the garden surrounding him. It was spotlessly neat and very well cared for. Who had done that? The house in front of him was clearly not inhabited by anyone. Scanning his surroundings once more, he now noticed a completely dark cottage further down by the forest edge that was in far better condition than Riddle House. Committing the little cottage to memory, intending to follow up on that track later, he entered the mansion.

Nothing inside stood out to him as particularly weird or out of the ordinary. The entire place was covered in grey dust and cobweb, and all over the floors were muddy footprints from people who had run in and out of this place in different directions. Severus didn't get anything out of that, since they could have been left there by anyone at any time, and travelled from room to room in search for clues. But, just as with all the other places he had visited so far, nothing of interest could be found.

He stepped out of the house and trekked across the neat lawn towards the cottage, noticing with some relief that it had stopped raining. Taking down his domed umbrella-ward, he opened up the front door and stepped inside the house. It was completely dark inside, and it wasn't until Severus had found the light switch and turned the ceiling lamp on that he noticed that something was amiss.

Striding across the little room that made up the better part of the cottage, Severus came to a halt next to Mr Bryce's bed, and didn't even have to check the old man's pulse to know that he was dead, and had been so for several hours, since his complexion had turned sunken and grey. Now, this was nothing that stood out to him as strange – old people died in their sleep all the time, if they were lucky. What was odd, however, was that on top of the covers, resting on the man's chest, were his two hands – or rather, his one hand and a stump where his second hand should have been.

Taking a closer look at the stump, Severus thought at first that it looked like the man might have been living with it for many years, but the more be stared at it, the fresher it looked to him. Tracing it with his wand, Severus checked if there were any traces of magical manipulation left on it, and found that there was, indeed, quite a lot of residue, not only the stump, but on the man's entire body – as if he had been exposed to either a lot of, or some very powerful, magic in the last couple of hours.

Now, this could mean a lot of things, and nothing pointed directly to Potter or the Dark Lord, but, this could be considered a lead and Severus would take it back to Dumbledore and hopefully, at last, get some rest.

* * *

Harry stirred awake at dawn from a vicious nightmare about bubbling cauldrons filled with screaming Muggles whose faces melted from the warmth. He had been about to be thrown into a cauldron of his own by a dead-eyed Mr Bryce right before he had awoken. Recalling where he was filled him with much dread, and the residue feelings of fright from the dream only made matters worse.

Since soft rays of morning sun had begun to seek their way through the grimy window next to the headboard of the grand four-poster bed, Harry now had a chance to take a look at his surroundings. Pushing his round glasses back onto his nose, finding them lying next to him on a dusty red pillow, he scanned the room and noticed that it was not quite as barren as he had expected it to be after his quick tour of the fortress's upper levels with Quirrell last night.

Next to the bed, on each side, stood a pair of night tables, made out of the same, heavy wood as the bed. Straight across the grey stone floor lay a rich, but very dusty, Persian carpet, leading up to a heavy wooden wardrobe with a carved ornament in the form of an owl on top of it. Next to the wardrobe, opposite the window, hung a partly cracked mirror with a golden rim, and to the other side was the door, which looked depressingly locked to Harry.

Crawling out from under the dusty covers and swinging his legs over one side of the bed, he came face to face with a painting that hung on the wall to the left. It portrayed a deep green forest made out of lush ash trees, under which the dark forest ground was coated in a golden carpet of fallen leaves. Under one of the trees stood a woman, who looked quite out of place – she was wearing some very extravagant robes that looked almost like an 18th century ball gown because of the puffy skirts and arms, although some parts of it had heavy, dark blue curtains of fabric that distinctly set it apart as a set of robes. Her skin was so fair it almost glowed white, and her lips were dusted in a sharp red colour. Her black hair was tied up neatly at the back of her head, and at the top of it sat a sort of silver diadem adorned with dark blue stones.

With a small smile on her red lips, she bade him good morning and then pitter-pattered out of the painting. Suspecting where she was off to, Harry begrudgingly put his shoes on and strode across the room to try his luck with the door. He was startled into complete stillness when the wardrobe suddenly started shaking. As he stood rock still in the middle of the room, staring at the shivering furniture, it suddenly stopped, and everything became at once eerily quiet. Harry felt his heart speed up in fear as a dark aura seemed so start seeping out from the wardrobe's crannies, and it took a violent jolt when the doors started to slowly slide open.

What came out of it made his heart almost stop, and he backed straight into the foot end of the bed as his subconscious was trying to escape; it was Voldemort coming towards him, wand held high, pointing it straight at him. Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to ignore the stark fright those glaring red eyes inspired and straightened up to stand his ground.

With a cruel smile, the Dark Lord laughed coldly. "Are you ready for death, Harry? It has come for you at last."

"So do it," Harry roared, trying to ignore how his heart banged inside his chest, making his ears ring. "Kill me! It won't matter, because you'll never win, you EVIL MONSTER!"

Voldemort's face twisted into a sneer of pure evil and was just about to shoot off a curse when there came a sharp _click_ from the door before it swung open with a _bang_.

"Potter, what is the matter with you –" exclaimed Quirrell, and then promptly froze on the spot as he caught sight of Voldemort, who had turned around towards him. "M-m-master!" Quirrell exclaimed, and fell to one knee, "I-I-I didn't r-realise th-that you ... b-b-but how did you g-get here s-so quickly – I j-just saw you –"

Quirrell then let out a sharp gasp as Voldemort suddenly _transformed_. Harry couldn't quite believe his eyes, but all of a sudden, Professor Dumbledore stood in the exact same spot where Voldemort had been.

" _Professor?_ " Harry gasped in stark disbelief.

Quirrell, who had jumped to his feet, was staring at Dumbledore too, pale as a sheet. "H-h-headm-m-mast-t-ter!" he exclaimed in a high squeak.

Dumbledore wore an expression Harry had never seen on his face before – one of such pure anger that he looked like a completely different person. "Quirinus," he rumbled darkly in a voice that resembled thunder, "I am _very_ disappointed in you."

"P-p-please!" Quirrell squeaked, "I-I-I d-didn't m-m-mean to –" Then, his eyes cleared of some of the fright, and he swept his gaze back and forth between Dumbledore and the open wardrobe. Looking stark raving mad, he then fixed his eyes straight at the Headmaster, and let out a bout of nervous laughter.

Harry stared wide-eyed at his old professor as his laughter became more and more intense. Strangely, Professor Dumbledore had started to back away from him, looking worried, and when Quirrell raised his wand at him, he did nothing to protect himself.

"PROFESSOR!" Harry exclaimed and jumped forwards to try to protect the old Headmaster from harm, but he was too late.

" _Rictusempra!_ " Quirrell uttered, and immediately, a silver light sprung from the wand tip and slammed straight into Dumbledore's chest.

"NO!" Harry shouted, rushing over to Dumbledore's side, but he was quickly pulled away by Quirrell, who had taken a strong grip on his arm. Struggling against his captor, Harry could only watch as Dumbledore let out a sharp, ear-splitting bout of laughter and then, to Harry's horrification, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, and disappeared.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" he shouted in uncontrollable rage. "YOU KILLED HIM! MURDERER!"

"Potter, w-w-wait, l-let me explain," Quirrell stuttered, holding his hands up in the air.

"NO!" Harry roared, "YOU KILLED HIM! HOW COULD YOU? HE WAS GOING TO SAVE ME!"

"P-P-Potter, p-please, calm down – it's not like you th-think. C-calm down – _please_ , he'll hear you!"

Harry was hitting, kicking, screaming and ripping at every piece of Quirrell he could get hold of, not listening to anything the stuttering man was trying to tell him. His tantrum didn't end until a sudden force slammed into his side, and he went stiff as a rock before falling painfully to the ground.

Frozen in fright, he heard someone enter the room, and didn't need Quirrell's instantly stuttered exclamation of " _Master!_ " to know who it was, since he could feel his scar start to burn with pain.

"You _utterly useless spawn of a flobberworm_ ," Voldemort hissed quietly, stalking into the room. "You even fail to handle yourself against an unarmed, _scrawny_ 11-year-old boy. _Crucio!_ "

Harry wasn't familiar with that curse, but soon realised that whatever it did, it was immensely painful, as he listened with horror to Quirrell's desperate cries. When the curse was lifted, half a minute later, Quirrell was whimpering and shaking like a leaf. "M-m-master! F-f-forgive me!"

"Silence," Voldemort demanded acidly, quite effectively making his terrified servant bite his tongue. "What is the meaning of this? I explicitly told you to _fetch Harry for me_."

"M-m-master, I know –"

"ANSWER ME!" Voldemort roared, and Harry felt his body start to break out in incontrollable shivers of terror.

"A B-B-Boggart, master, it at-t-tacked Potter – I was j-j-just b-banishing it – then h-he j-j-jumped me!"

"And then ..." Voldemort inquired after Quirrell fell silent. When he didn't get an answer, Voldemort decided to answer for him. "And then, you did _absolutely nothing_ while he abused you, a superior, and made such a ruckus it echoed through the entire fortress. Is that behaviour you think should be allowed from a minor?" he said in an extremely quiet voice that spoke of painful death. "Get out of my sight," he hissed then, startling Quirrell to his feet, "I cannot stand to look at you, you insufferable _squib_! Go do your errands and make yourself useful."

"Y-y-yes, m-master," Quirrell squeaked at once and hurriedly scrambled out of the room and down the stairs, leaving Harry alone with the livid Dark Lord.

After a couple of tense seconds, Harry felt his body relax as the Full Body-Bind Curse was lifted. Carefully, he propped himself up against the wall and looked at Voldemort. The man was busying himself with banishing dust from every nook and cranny of the room, looking to be calming down ever so slowly as he was doing so, as if cleaning up was therapeutic for him. To his relief, Harry felt the burning headache starting to dissipate.

"What, pray tell, did you see that inspired such _undignified_ violence?" Voldemort asked, eyeing him with burning red eyes.

"Dumbledore," Harry whispered, "he killed Dumbledore."

"No, Harry, I did not inquire after what you _think_ you saw," Voldemort responded at once. "I want to know what you _saw_."

Hesitating, Harry tried to recall exactly what he had seen. "Well, first I saw you," he admitted, pointing at the open wardrobe, "coming out of there. You were going to kill me. But then Quirrell came in, and you ... you turned into Dumbledore –"

"That is enough," Voldemort stated harshly, making Harry snap his mouth shut at once. "That should be proof enough for you to deduct that it was _not_ Dumbledore you saw, but something else. If you had listened to your superiors, as you _ought to do unless you want to be punished most severely_ , you had known that it was a Boggart – a magical creature that turns into your worst fear and can only be banished with laughter."

For some strange reason, Harry felt ashamed, and wondered to himself how it was possible that he had actually thought that it was the real Professor Dumbledore who had just magically appeared to save him. It now sounded to him like the wishful thinking of a stupid child, and it made him blush furiously.

"Look at me, Harry," said Voldemort quietly, and didn't continue until Harry had gathered his courage and done so. "Such behaviour will not be tolerated, and if you decide to attack any of your superiors again, Quirrell included, you will feel such pain as you have never felt before. Is that clear?"

"... Yes," Harry whispered, receiving an annoyed frown from the Dark Lord.

"Let's not forget to be polite, Harry," he said pointedly. "Yes ...?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, and let out a short breath of relief when Voldemort then gave him a short nod.

"Very good. Now, stand up," he then commanded and watched in silence as Harry complied. "As you must already know, young wizards as yourself are not allowed to practice magic outside of school," Voldemort then said, his voice back to the calm one Harry felt he very much preferred. "Now, this poses a problem, since the Ministry of Magic could very easily find you the moment you tap into your mana pool to use magic. You see, all witches and wizards who attend Hogwarts are put under a monitoring spell during the Sorting Ceremony; the moment the Sorting Hat touches their heads. This spell is impossible to remove and will dissolve of its own volition on their seventeenth birthday – well, I should say 'impossible to most wizards', of course. Removing it poses no problem to someone such as I."

"So ... you will let me use magic?" Harry asked in surprise. That was certainly not what he had been expecting.

"Let you?" Voldemort scoffed, "I will _require_ it. Do you think I would allow you to be completely helpless, when you carry a precious piece of my soul with you? Of course not. Now, stand up straight and relax. This is going to feel as if I'm pulling out all of the hair on top of your head by the roots, but don't worry, it is just the spell."

Not feeling comforted in the least by that explanation, Harry bit his teeth together and steeled himself. It certainly hurt, and the pain brought tears to his eyes, but it was over very quickly, leaving no soreness behind at all.

"There," Voldemort said, and pulled out a wand – _Harry's wand_ – out of a deep robe pocket and unceremoniously handed it to him, handle-first. "I almost regret parting with it," Voldemort said sombrely as Harry accepted the wand and instantly felt a comforting warmth spread down his arm and through his entire body. "It is a good wand – strong and powerful. Very much like my own, in fact."

"It's because they're brother wands," Harry blurted out, instantly berating himself for letting things slip out so easily.

"Brother wands, you say," Voldemort answered, sounding intrigued, "who told you that?"

"Mr Ollivander," Harry admitted sullenly. "When I bought it, he said that your wand had done great things, and that my wand was also meant for great things."

"Interesting," Voldemort said, smiling softly. "That makes sense. Being the owner of such a powerful wand signifies power, and great things could be expected of such a person."

Confused at being praised all of a sudden, Harry didn't know how to react and only stuffed the wand into his right jeans pocket and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw how Voldemort was eyeing him up and down, a sneer slowly building up on his face.

"You are in dire need of clean clothes," he stated, shaking his head, "and a proper bath. Such a bother; neither I nor Quirrell can afford to be seen in public at the moment, I am afraid – not that I would take precious time off to go shopping for you, even if I could. You will have to make do with a set of my robes."

Saying that, Voldemort flicked his wand in the direction of the open doorway, and a moment later a set of black, simple robes zoomed into the room and landed neatly onto the bed. Eyeing Harry shortly, Voldemort flicked the wand again, and the robes slowly shrunk in size. When Voldemort seemed pleased, the shrinking stopped and the robes were handed over to Harry. "I hope you realise what an honour it is to be wearing Lord Voldemort's robes," Voldemort muttered, sounding slightly ticked off.

"Thank you," Harry answered, feeling a little bit gleeful at causing the Dark Lord some discomfort, "I'll be careful with them."

Giving Harry a look that absolutely screamed " _or else_ ", Voldemort turned on his heel and told Harry to follow. Ending up in a big bathroom that looked to be in fairly good condition, Voldemort quickly lit it up and cleaned it off roughly, before picking up a loose rock that had fallen out of the wall and transfiguring it into a bar of soap. Then he conjured a fluffy towel out of thin air and handed both things to Harry. "Meet me on the ground floor when you're sparkling clean," was his final command before heading out the door and closing it.

Harry marvelled at the entire situation, but shook it off and started to run the bath. Once he was done, feeling very refreshed – as if he hadn't been clean in months – he hesitated slightly before trying on his new robes. Somehow, it felt like he was doing something wrong if he wore something that belonged to Voldemort, but on the other hand, he couldn't very well go around naked, now could he? And putting on his own clothes now that he was so clean felt like a crime.

So he donned the robes, and was surprised at how well-fitting and comfortable they turned out to be. The dark fabric felt silky against his skin, but not slippery, only soft. The arms were slightly long and fell down over his hands so that only his fingers were visible, but somehow, Harry found that comforting, as if the robes were somehow protecting him more that way.

After draining the bath, blowing out the candles and dropping his wand into his right pocket, he headed out into the hallway and down the stairs. Following the sound of voices, he delved deeper into the fortress until he came to a grand dining hall with a long, handsome table reaching from one end of the room to the other. In a grand armchair at the right end of the table sat Voldemort, spreading butter onto a steaming piece of scones, and next to him stood Quirrell, looking extremely nervous.

"So you're telling me, Quirrell, that you failed in _yet another task_ that your master gave you," Voldemort said, casting quick look at Harry as he approached, showing with a hand movement that he should sit and indulge in the tea and scones.

"M-m-master, it is o-only – I tried m-m-many m-m-muggle shops, b-b-but they didn't h-have toads – I d-d-don't think they s-sell them – let al-l-lone _thirty_ –"

"And what do you do when you cannot _buy_ an ingredient, Quirrell?" Voldemort hissed testily. "You go into a forest and _find it_ instead."

"Y-y-yes, m-master," Quirrell exclaimed and hurriedly left the room, leaving Harry, once again, with a livid-looking Dark Lord.

"I don't think I have ever met anyone with such a blatant lack of talent," Voldemort muttered to himself, sipping his cup of steaming hot tea and glaring across the room at the cold fireplace.

"You should try having him for a teacher," Harry blurted, instantly freezing up in fear that he had overstepped his boundaries and disrespected a superior.

Voldemort eyed him, and Harry could swear he saw a glint of humour in those eyes. "Don't remind me – I had to sit through all of his poor excuses for lessons, every week for a year. I know in exact detail the depths of his incapability."

Wondering what Voldemort meant by that, Harry recalled that Quirrell had mentioned something similar last night. "When Quirrell took me and the Stone from Hogwarts," he began carefully, watching Voldemort's expression for any sign of disapproval. "It wasn't really Quirrell, was it?"

"No," Voldemort said simply, taking another sip of his tea.

"And that shape in the Forbidden Forest ... drinking Unicorn blood ... was you too, right?"

"It was," Voldemort said, putting his empty cup down onto the saucer, raising an eyebrow at him.

"But, you were using Quirrell's body," Harry concluded uncertainly.

"I was possessing him," Voldemort explained calmly. "It became necessary once I realised how utterly incapable he was. I originally had other plans for him, but I found myself in a position where I had to choose between either trusting him completely or keeping him in a vice grip."

"And you chose the second," Harry concluded, watching as Voldemort wiped his mouth delicately on a napkin and moved to stand. "But, how did –"

"Enough questions," Voldemort decided, and looked down at Harry from his standing position. "Finish your meal. I am leaving to meet with some old friends, and in the meantime, I trust you not to get into trouble. I give you free reign to walk wherever you wish on the island, to do whatever magic you can think of with the restriction that you cannot put yourself in danger, try to escape, or attempt to contact anyone. If I find that you have broken any of these rules, I will confiscate your wand and keep you locked up in your room. Is that clear?"

After a stunned moment during which Harry marvelled at the freedom he was given, he nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir."

And as simple as that, Voldemort was gone and Harry found himself being left to his own devices.

* * *

Two hours later, the sun stood high on the clear blue sky, making it almost unbearably hot. Harry would have thought that he would have melted into a puddle wearing such thick clothing, but surprisingly, as long as he stayed in shadow, he was perfectly cool.

After Voldemort left, Harry had gulped down the last of his breakfast and hurried outside, eager to get some sense of freedom. He had walked around the island once, finding that it had only taken about ten minutes, which meant that the island was of the smaller kind. The fortress was located on the highest point, while the opposite side of the island, where Harry was currently standing staring out at the open ocean, was low enough to have a rocky beach. The middle of the island was made up of a sparse pine forest, which was only inhabited by some birds as far as Harry could tell.

He had also found that if he followed along the shore, dark walls of rock would start to build up to his right, but the way forwards would be clear, until he came to a great opening, leading into a dark cave. Harry had taken a peek inside, using the Wand-Lighting Charm in order to see better, but hadn't dared to explore it to any depth, just in case something gruesome were lying in wait inside, ready to gulp him down.

Instead, he had settled down by the lowest part of the shore, which had probably been used as a dock at some point, since the road up to the fortress began there. Looking out at the billowing blanket of salt water, Harry tried desperately to figure out a way to escape – but as it turned out, he couldn't think of a thing that could help him. He couldn't think of one spell that he knew which could let him escape.

He couldn't levitate himself over the water – for one thing, levitating himself wasn't something he had ever attempted, and he had a feeling he wouldn't make it very far until he had exhausted himself. Besides, he had no clue whatsoever in which direction mainland was. He also couldn't use a Softening Charm or a Fire-Making Spell for anything constructive. He did know how to make a pineapple tap-dance and how to turn a mouse into a snuffbox – but what use did he have of those skills right now?

Harry found it depressing that he couldn't figure out one useful thing he had learnt during his first year at Hogwarts which could help him get out of this dire situation. Why hadn't he learnt how to breathe under water or build himself a boat, he thought with annoyance. And why hadn't he learnt how to contact people in the wizarding world? All he knew was that people sent letters with owls, but at the moment, he had neither bird nor parchment and ink, so that information wasn't very useful either.

"I wish Hedwig was here," he whispered to himself and sighed, daydreaming of seeing a bright white dot on the horizon, slowly coming closer and closer to him. But no such dot appeared, and when the sudden _crack_ of a twig snapping in two sounded behind him, he stopped daydreaming altogether.

Turning around, he caught sight of Quirrell, who seemed to be scouting the forest for him. "Oh, about time, about _time_ , Potter," he exclaimed once he caught sight of Harry, and hurriedly trekked over to him.

"Is something wrong?" Harry wondered, hoping dearly that he hadn't accidentally broken one of Voldemort's rules.

"Oh, no! Nothing at all," Quirrell assured him, sitting down next to him on the stony ground. "I was just sent out to see where you had run off to. But there's nothing wrong."

"I see," Harry said with some relief and turned back to watch the ocean move. "Did you find the toads?" he asked his old professor after a few minutes of silence.

"What? Oh! Yes, I ... I did find some, yes," Quirrell answered, seeming to have been deep in thought.

"What does he need toads for?" Harry pondered. He knew Neville had a pet toad for company, but somehow, he doubted that was what Voldemort was going to use them for. Let alone thirty of them ...

"Oh, I don't know," Quirrell answered after a short pause, "I didn't dare ask."

He isn't very brave, is he, Harry thought to himself, watching his old professor out of the corner of his eye. "What are you going to do now?" he asked, suddenly curious.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to go back to work at Hogwarts, or are you going to stay here? Perhaps go someplace else?" Harry clarified, watching as Quirrell's face turned quite pale.

"Oh! Oh, no no! I cannot go back – not now. I'm a wanted criminal, Potter. I need to stay hidden," Quirrell insisted in a hushed tone, as if there were people eavesdropping on them from behind the trees.

"For stealing the Philosopher's Stone?" Harry asked, frowning as he realised how unfair that was. It had been Voldemort who had stolen the stone, not Quirrell.

"Not only that!" Quirrell exclaimed, looking at him with sorrowful eyes. "The worst of my crimes is abducting you, Potter. People are out searching for you like mad. If they find me, chances are they'll kill me."

"Kill you?" Harry exclaimed. "That seems a bit harsh."

"Oh, they probably wouldn't – not really. But many would want to, I'm sure," Quirrell said with a weak smile. "You're not just anyone, Potter. You're the Boy-Who-Lived."

"I'm sorry," Harry said after a moment of silence. "You don't really want to be here, do you?"

"... No," Quirrell whispered with distant eyes, staring off into the sky.

The both of them sat in silence for quite some time after that, just pondering their fates, watching the sun sink lower and lower on the sky.

"I think we'd better get back inside," Quirrell said at last, arising and stretching out his back. Harry didn't find any point in staying by the shore just for the sake of it, and he had started to get quite hungry, so he followed Quirrell up the road and into the fortress at the top of the cliff.

Stepping through the double doors into the entrance hall, Harry noticed at once that something was very different; everything was sparkling clean. How had that happened? He very much doubted that Voldemort himself had taken the time to go around everywhere, cleaning up several years' worth of dust and grime. So who had?

"Have you been cleaning?" Harry asked Quirrell as they headed up the stairs towards the first floor sitting room.

"Oh, no," Quirrell said with a smile, "it's the house-elves."

"The house-elves?" Harry asked with a frown, but Quirrell just shook his head at him.

"You'll see, Potter, you'll see."

Entering the sitting room, Harry almost did a double take, because it didn't look like the same room. The windows were sparkling clean, letting the afternoon sun into the room. Along the wall opposite the windows were rows after rows of bookshelves, filled to the rim with thick, leather-bound tomes. In the middle of the room, on top of a circular carpet, with the design of a compass face on it, stood a round wooden table, sparkling clean with only a lonely newspaper lying neatly folded on top of it. From the ceiling hung a handsome chandelier, spreading prisms across the room as the sun rays split in its crystals. In the green sofa in front of the fireplace sat Voldemort, completely immersed in a very old-looking book, which looked to be written with red ink. Must be hard to read, Harry thought to himself.

"M-m-master," said Quirrell, falling to one knee next to Harry. "I h-h-have retrieved P-p-potter for you."

Appearing not to take any notice of them, Voldemort simply kept on reading for a long moment, during which Harry started to doubt that he had noticed that they were there at all. Just as he was about to clear his throat so say something himself, Voldemort put a long, velvet bookmark between the pages and carefully put the book away on a side table, which Harry only then noticed had been added to the room as well.

Then, the Dark Lord arose, and acknowledged them at last. "Has he been getting up to any trouble?" he asked Quirrell quietly, casting a searching look at Harry.

"N-no, master," Quirrell answered and arose from his hunched position. "N-not as f-f-far as I c-can tell."

Voldemort nodded once and cast one last look at Harry before giving Quirrell his full attention. "That will be all for just now, Quirrell. Your Marking Ceremony will be performed at midnight, but until then, you may do whatever you please."

"Y-y-yes," Quirrell, who looked paler than ever, stuttered. "C-c-certainly ... T-t-thank you, m-m-master."

After that, he took a bow and headed out the door.

"Now," Voldemort said and beckoned with a hand. "Come closer." Once Harry had done as asked, Voldemort called out " _elves!"_ , and instantly, three little creatures popped into existence at their feet.

They didn't look like any creature Harry had ever seen before – they had huge, batwing-like ears, and heads that seemed far too big for their little bodies. Their eyes were tennis ball round and the colour of their skin was very close to grey. Two of them were wrapped up in what looked like kitchen towels, and the third looked to be wearing an old pillowcase.

Voldemort gestured towards the elf the furthest to the left, who had low-sitting ears, compared to the others, and a pair of ocean blue eyes. "This is Bleak. She was gifted to me by the Avery family."

Next, he gestured towards the elf in the middle, who was a bit stockier than the others, and had a very short, pig snout-like nose. "This is Grimly. He was given to me by the Goyle family."

Finally, he gestured towards the elf dressed in a pillowcase, who was a little bit taller than the others, and had a pair of bulging green eyes. "And this is Dobby, who I was gifted by the Malfoy family."

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry said to the elves and was met by instant silence. Bleak and Grimly looked at him with expressions of utter horrification, as if he had committed some horrible faux pas, but Dobby had turned tear-eyed, and was looking up at him with something that looked ... almost like hero-worship.

"House-elves are not to be spoken to with any respect, Harry," Voldemort berated him calmly. "They do not enjoy it – they are here to serve, nothing else."

Judging by Bleak and Grimy, who both refused to look at him now, Harry might have believed that. But looking at Dobby, who seemed thrilled to be spoken to with respect, Harry thought there might be more to the story than Voldemort tried to make him believe. Knowing better than to challenge him, however, Harry nodded his supposed acceptance.

"All right, sorry. I've never met house-elves before, sir."

Accepting the apology, Voldemort turned to the elves. "This is Harry Potter, who I told you about earlier. I will stress that he is not your master, and that you will not answer to him or accept any of his requests. If he should ask for anything that you deem acceptable, you must come to me and ask for permission."

"Yes, master," the elves said as one, with extremely squeaky voices that made Harry think of dog-toys.

After that, the elves were dismissed and Voldemort returned to his studies. Finding nothing better to do, Harry went over to look if the newspaper said anything about his disappearance. Leafing through it, he soon realised the entire thing seemed to be dedicated to his abduction.

One article told him that something called Aurors, that Harry understood from context meant something like "wizard policemen", were out looking for him all over the country, but that so far they had, obviously, been unsuccessful. Another article consisted of interviews with some Hogwarts students, none of which Harry knew personally, who had apparently witnessed Quirrell's flight through the window, and that he had been holding a cage with a black rabbit in one hand. One page was entirely dedicated to a wanted poster of Quirrell, reading _"Quirinus Quirrell; Undesirable no.1"_.

But what stood out to him the most was an interview with Ron and Hermione, who told of Harry's bravery trying to protect the Philosopher's Stone from Quirrell. Harry found it strange that they hadn't gone out and said that it was Voldemort who was behind the theft, but apart from that, the article just made him ache horribly for his friends, wishing with all his heart that he would get to see them again.

As a clock chimed eight from somewhere downstairs, Voldemort lead Harry down into the dining room, where they ate a very nicely cooked dinner, no doubt made by the house-elves. When they had finished, Harry finally found the courage to break the silence.

"What do you need toads for?"

Turning to him slowly, looking to be in deep thought, Voldemort first looked inquisitive, as if he hadn't heard what Harry had said. Then, he said suspiciously, "Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know," Harry said quietly, "it's just been bothering me all day. What would one use thirty toads for?"

Smiling for some reason that Harry couldn't fathom, Voldemort simply answered, "For an army."

Harry simply looked at him sceptically. A toad army? Was he serious? Did toads have some magical properties he didn't know of, or what?

"You will see what I mean, all in due time," Voldemort assured him, smirking slightly.

After dinner, Harry returned to the bedroom, carefully making sure there was nothing left of the Boggart inside of the wardrobe before settling down in the bed, feeling exhausted.

* * *

The moon shone brightly from the window when Harry was startled awake by a horrible scream of pain from outside. Dashing to the window, Harry spotted a bonfire out on the shore, burning poisonous green. It was hard to see anything in detail because of the distance, but at least two figures could be seen standing in front of the fire – one of them bent over the other, who stood on his knees.

Shuddering as he imagined what the so-called Marking Ceremony could entail, feeling sorry for Quirrell since it seemed that, whatever it was, it was painful, Harry was about to step away from the window when he saw something. At first, he didn't believe his eyes, and had to rub them a couple of times to be sure he wasn't half-asleep and seeing things. But it didn't disappear – in fact, it grew bigger as it came closer; a small, white dot, moving towards his window in the light of the moon.

 _Hedwig._


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Three

* * *

Harry's heart drummed against his ribcage as he flicked his eyes back and forth between Hedwig and the people at the green bonfire, hoping beyond belief that she wouldn't be noticed. But he knew, if he was being completely honest with himself, how unlikely it was that she hadn't been seen already. Her snow white feather-coat shone like a beacon in the light of the full moon, making her stand out like a sore thumb against the dark night sky.

Very carefully, Harry opened up the window and stuck out his head, instantly shivering as the cool night stole into the room and over his bare legs, making him wish he was wearing something more than a t-shirt and boxers. Ignoring the cold, he fixed his gaze at the shore and could see quite clearly that his captors were still standing there, Quirrell kneeling before his master, and that they didn't appear to have spotted Hedwig yet.

 _Oh, please let her make it,_ Harry thought desperately as he watched his beloved owl come closer and closer. _Just a little bit further_ , he thought when she had come close enough for him to look into her bright yellow eyes.

Then, she came flying straight through the open window, made a half-turn inside the room to slow down, and then landed neatly onto Harry's stretched out left arm. Ruffling up her feathers, she screwed up her eyes and greeted him with a very quiet, affectionate screech. Laughing with happiness at seeing her again, Harry buried his face into her feather coat, and didn't move until he received a playful nip on his right earlobe.

A bit out of breath from relief, Harry turned to close the window, looking out at the shore, just to be safe. What he saw made his blood run cold; the fire was out, and not a soul could be seen out there. _Where had they gone_ , thought Harry in panic, turning his head this way and that to try to see if his captors were walking somewhere along the road, but he saw no-one.

"Hedwig," he gasped with deep regret, "I am _so_ sorry, but you must go, _now_ , before he –"

With a _slam_ , the window shut, right in front of his face. "Please," he pleaded in a quivering voice, slowly turning around, "don't ..."

Voldemort stood looking at him with murder burning in his eyes, having somehow managed to enter the room completely soundlessly, as if he had just _appeared_.

With his wand held high in his left hand, Voldemort stretched out his right hand, palm up, and slowly uttered an icy command. "Hand it over."

Harry wrapped his arms protectively around Hedwig's body, feeling a strange urge to growl up at the one who _dared_ threatening his owl. "NO!"

Instantly, his head split open in white hot pain, and Harry fell to the floor and curled up, clutching at his head to make it go away. Through clouded eyes, he saw how Hedwig spread her wings wide with a furious screech, and took a leap into the air with her sharp talons stretched out towards Voldemort's face.

Instantly shooting a red-beamed curse at her with a nonchalant flick of his wand, Voldemort successfully halted her attack, and she fell limp onto the Persian carped at his feet. Harry whimpered and started to crawl towards her, through a haze of pain, and hoped with his entire being that she wasn't dead. But before he could reach her, he was pushed onto his back and pinned down by one of Voldemort's black leather boots. Pushing his foot down a little harder as he leaned over him, Voldemort repeated the command in a vicious hiss. "Hand. It. Over."

"Hhhand whhhhat over?" Harry wheezed out furiously, finding it hard to breathe because of the pressure on his chest.

"The letter, the Portkey, the tracking device; whatever the owl came with," Voldemort clarified viciously.

"Whhhh – shhhe didn't hhhave anythhhhing," Harry claimed truthfully, but Voldemort obviously didn't believe him.

Locking eyes with him, Voldemort did that same mind-reading thing he had done by the Mirror of Erised, which brought an additional, instant pain into Harry's head. Just as he thought he was about to faint from the sheer pain, Voldemort slipped out of his head, taking all the pain with him, and stepped away from his chest.

Harry drew in a generous breath and coughed a few times before scurrying over the floor to Hedwig's side, cradling her limp body in his arms.

"The owl is merely stunned," said Voldemort calmly before Harry could ask, and a feeling of deepest relief filled him at once. "Harry, look at me," he said next, and slowly, Harry complied.

Voldemort was currently seated on the edge of Harry's bed, looking quite ... worn out, as if he'd had a really long day, or had used a lot of magic, or something. His dark hair looked windswept, his pale hands were stained by something green, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes.

"I hope you realise that you have just broken, not one, but two of my rules and have to be punished accordingly."

"What?" Harry said in a quivering voice. "Which rules?"

"Firstly, you neglected to show me the appropriate respect I am due as your superior," Voldemort stated. "The punishment for which was ferocious pain, and I believe that has just been taken care of." Harry swallowed an angry retort and only nodded sullenly. "Secondly, you broke the promise not to try to contact anyone by any means, for which the punishment –"

"But I didn't!" Harry exclaimed, thoughtlessly interrupting the Dark Lord mid-sentence. "I'm sorry, sir," he hurriedly said once he realised his mistake, but decided to keep fighting, for Hedwig's sake. "I meant no disrespect, but I didn't try to contact anyone."

"That is your owl, is it not?" Voldemort asked quietly, and after receiving a nod from Harry, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Since the owl did not come here on somebody else's orders to deliver something to you, I will presume that you called it here."

"But," Harry said with great uncertainty. "But I never knew that I could do that. I don't know how she knew where I was, but I didn't call for her ..."

"How is it possible," Voldemort mused with some disdain, "that you know so very little about the wizarding world? Did the shopkeeper tell you nothing when you bought the owl?"

"I didn't buy her," Harry confessed. "She was a birthday gift. Hagrid bought her for me when I was busy looking around the shop, so I don't know what the shopkeeper told him ... And I grew up with Muggles, so of course I don't know much about the wizarding world."

"Growing up with Muggles is no excuse for –" Voldemort sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am far too tired for this," he grumbled to himself before directing a dark glare at Harry once again. "Back to the matter at hand," he said and shot a pointed look at Hedwig. "The owls captured and brought into the wizarding world are fed a certain potion, which has properties quite similar to those of a Love Potion. The effects certify that the first wizard who shows it any affection will be bound to it by a magical bond that connects the owl to him or her emotionally. As a result, the owl will both sense when it is called by its master, and be able to find him or her, whatever the destination or the ward around it."

"So, you think I called for Hedwig?" Harry asked.

"Have you thought about her at all the last couple of days? Perhaps wished that she'd come to you?"

"Well ... Yes, I guess I did that ... But I didn't know it would make her come here," Harry said, trying to argue his case so that Voldemort wouldn't have any reason to hurt Hedwig for his mistake.

"Enough," Voldemort snapped, holding a hand up. "It doesn't matter. What lies ahead now is a choice you will have to make, and I do not have any patience left for you, so make it quickly. As you must understand I cannot allow you to have an owl at your disposal – the risk of detection is too great. Hence; either I kill her or –"

"What!" Harry exclaimed. "No, you can't –"

" _Silence_!" Voldemort hissed, obviously at the end of his tether, and Harry wearily complied. " _Or_ , you must sever the bond and let her go back into the wild."

At once, Harry tensed up in absolute denial. Of course he would choose that before letting Voldemort kill her – but it pained him horribly that he would have to just let her go, and probably never see her again. Ever. If she became wild again, she would fly away to some faraway place ... It felt horrible, and Harry thought desperately that there had to be another choice ... but looking at Voldemort's impatient expression, he knew that wasn't so, and reluctantly resigned himself to what he would have to do.

"I'll do it," Harry said with a shivering voice. "But how?"

With quite some impatience, Voldemort walked through the simple ritual with him, teaching him its steps and words until he knew it by heart. Soon thereafter, he sat on the bed, right in front of Hedwig, who had been awoken. With tears starting to stream down his cheeks, Harry gently laid the tip of his wand onto her head, looked her in the eye and began his chant.

" _I sever the bonds that bind us ... Your name is not Hedwig._

 _I sever the bonds that bind us ... I am not your master._

 _I sever the bonds that bind us ... You are free to roam the wild."_

As soon as he finished the chant, a warm glow transferred from the tip of his wand to Hedwig's head, spreading all over her body. After a moment of glowing, it faded away, and instantly, Hedwig's behaviour changed. Screeching in worry, twisting her head this way and that, flapping with her wide wings, she tried desperately to find a way out.

Sniffling, Harry arose from the bed and walked over to the window. He then took a last look at his dear Hedwig, who he would never forget, and opened up the window for her. At once sensing freedom, she took off in a white blur, shooting off into the night sky, and soon disappeared into the light of the full moon.

Harry stood there, staring out into the night for a long time after that, not noticing at all when or if Voldemort had left him alone. All he could think of was how close he had been to getting away from the island; how very sad he was to have lost such a dear friend; and how relieved he was that, at least, she wasn't dead.

* * *

In the darkness of his assigned bedroom, an alcove located on the murky ground floor, Quirinus finally allowed himself to break down into tears. Still burning painfully on the sensitive skin of his left arm was a fiery red tattoo in the shape of a skull with a coiling snake slipping out of its gaping mouth; the Dark Mark.

Now, Quirinus was fully aware that he had committed quite a few ill-versed actions lately, but he had somehow believed that one day he might recover and put these dark times behind him. But now, he had been initiated into a circle which would allow for no second thoughts, and his fate had been set in stone.

Muffling his sobs with his right hand, lying on his side on the slim bed, with his left arm stretched out onto the mattress as far away from his body as humanly possible, he looked into the darkness of his room with clouded eyes. His bed stood pushed up against the wall, under an extremely thin but tall window, and next to it stood a night table with a single lit candle on it. Right across the room was a wardrobe of the smaller kind, and chucked up against its side stood a wooden chest for more storage. In the middle of that wall was the door, and to its right was a fairly empty bookshelf, with only a handful of books and even fewer trinkets in it. In the end of the room was a fireplace, currently glowing weakly as the embers burned out one by one, and in front of it stood a very comfortable leather armchair.

It was a nice room, Quirinus mused, trying to distract himself from the pain in his arm. A little small, perhaps, but overall a good place to hide away for a while. Perhaps if he could get himself a pet cat to keep him company, he could feel at home here, he thought, imagining burying his fingers into fluffy, satin soft fur and slowly drifted off.

He was startled awake by a sudden _bang_ as his door was violently slung open. "Get up, Quirrell, we have more work to do," snarled the Dark Lord from the door opening, and Quirinus immediately jumped out of his bed and over to the wardrobe, where he picked out a warm cloak and threw it on on top of his night robes.

"W-w-what do you req-quire of me, m-m-master?" he stuttered out nervously as he stepped into his purple boots.

"I require that you think very carefully before neglecting to tell me something of such importance again, Quirrell," the Dark Lord hissed back at him. "Had I known beforehand that Harry was in the possession of an owl, I would have taken the necessary precautions, and prevented it from following us here. How is it that you failed to mention this little fact to me, Quirrell?"

"I-I-I," stuttered Quirinus helplessly, clutching at straws, "I thought y-y-you knew, m-m-master."

Eyeing him with a furious expression, the Dark Lord finally dropped the matter and turned around, signalling with a hand movement that he should follow as he stalked down the hallway towards the front doors. "This will be a long night, Quirrell. If anyone thought of following the owl here we will have to be prepared to fight them off."

"Y-y-yes, master," Quirinus said quietly and pulled out his wand from his right night robe pocket, deeply relieved that the Dark Lord's anger was finally directed at something other than him.

* * *

Harry awoke when the sun already stood high on the sky, listening to the crowing of crows streaming through the open window. On the leaf-covered ground, leaning against the stem of the biggest ash tree, sat the well-dressed woman, snoozing lightly with a peaceful expression on her face. Harry was just about to get out of bed, when a sudden pop sounded at the foot end.

"Good morning, Mr Harry Potter, sir," squeaked a tiny voice from beneath a high stack of brown boxes in varying sizes, balanced on top of each other. The pile moved over to his side, and when they were carefully set down onto the floor, Harry saw it was one of the house-elves, who now only carried a tray with what looked like breakfast on top of its head, who had addressed him.

"Good morning, err ... what was your name again?" Harry asked and watched as the elf carefully put the tray down onto his night table, watching him with huge green eyes.

"Dobby's name is Dobby, sir," the elf answered with reverence. "Harry Potter is a kind wizard – a good wizard, to ask after Dobby's simple name, sir."

"Err, right," Harry said uncertainly.

"So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir ... Such an honour it is ..." said Dobby, bowing so deeply his long nose was touching the ground.

"Th-thank you," said Harry, watching as Dobby got back up to look at him. "I ... what's all this stuff?"

"Presents for you, sir, from wizard families who likes giving gifts to Dobby's new master," Dobby answered eagerly. "Dobby was told by his new master, sir, before he went to bed this morning, that Harry Potter was to have breakfast and presents in his room."

"He went to bed this morning?" Harry asked, remembering how tired Voldemort had looked last night. "But what could he have been doing all night?" he mused aloud, not expecting an answer.

"Master went and fetched Mr Quirrell late last night, sir, Dobby saw ... Dobby likes keeping watch on his master, just in case ... He told Mr Quirrell that someone might have followed Harry Potter's owl here, sir, and that they should be prepared to fight."

Hanging onto every word, Harry felt baffled – he'd have no idea. "Well, did they fight someone?" he asked once Dobby had fallen quiet.

"Oh, no, sir, but they kept watch all night," Dobby told him and patted his knee as if trying to calm him down. "Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter, sir, but Dobby must continue his duties now." And with that, the elf disappeared with a _pop_ , and Harry was left alone to eat his breakfast and open his presents.

Starting with the food, feeling his tummy constrict with hunger at the smell of breakfast, Harry dug into his toast and pumpkin juice, carefully leaving a small breadcrumb in one corner of the tray for Hedwig before he started eating.

Finishing his meal, he put the tray back onto the night table and got out of bed, taking a better look at the packages. There were seven of them, and they all came with a small note on top of their lids. The note on the topmost, fairly small, rectangular package read _"To the Dark Lord's ward, from the Nott family"_. Opening it up, Harry picked out a pair of black leather boots that looked fairly thin and simple, but still luxurious somehow. Frowning at the strangeness of receiving gifts from people he had never met, he reached after another package, and read that this one was from the Selwyn family.

He blushed when he realised that the entire package was stuffed with neatly folded boxers made out of rich-looking silk in dark greens, blacks and blues. Wearing fresh underwear would be nice, Harry thought to himself, although it was extremely embarrassing to have some unknown wizard pick them out and sending them to him.

The package from the Goyle family contained two pairs of long, white robes with thin blue stripes that looked exactly like oversized button-down shirts. Since they came with something that looked exactly like the muggle parody of a nightcap, Harry guessed they were supposed to be slept in, like a sort of wizard pyjamas.

The Crabbe family had sent him a package full of socks, done in a soft black fabric; the Yaxley family had sent him a rich blue cloak with little spots of silver all over it; and the Bulstrode family had sent him a huge package that contained three sets of robes in black, looking not at all dissimilar from the one he had already received from Voldemort.

The last package came from the Malfoy family, and Harry dearly hoped that Draco had had nothing to do with whatever was in it. Lifting off the lid of the middle-sized, square package, Harry first thought it was a dress and blushed furiously as he imagined Draco strolling around Diagon Alley to pick that out for him. Upon closer inspection, however, Harry realised that it was an extremely nicely decorated set of robes. If he had to guess, they were supposed to be worn for special occasions, since they looked _very_ extravagant.

The outer part was in a dark green colour, with a pattern that looked like emerald-coloured moss. The lining around the neck, running down to the bottom-part, as well as around the sleeves, was in a black and silver diamond pattern, with black lines running along either side of the row of diamond shapes. The inner part of the robes was black, with little streaks of silver here and there.

Having finished opening up all his presents, Harry got a strong urge to take a quick bath and then try something on, since he could barely remember the last time he had a fresh set of underpants and socks at his disposal.

Using the same bathroom as he had the previous day, Harry made short work of cleaning up, and then returned to his room, sneaking carefully trough the corridor since he was only wearing a towel. Before letting the towel fall inside his room, he carefully made sure that the lady in the painting had woken up and walked somewhere else, before trying on a black pair of underpants. The fact that they fit him perfectly made him feel even more weirded out than before.

Picking out a pair of socks, one of the black robes, and stepping into the boots, Harry found everything fit him like a glove – except for the shoes, which were a little bit too big for him, but not so big that he couldn't wear them without them falling off his feet.

Taking a look into the repaired, golden rimmed mirror next to the wardrobe, Harry barely recognised himself. If not for the messy hair, the round glasses and the lightning bolt-shaped scar, he would have thought he was staring at one of his rich pure-blood classmates. That realisation made him instantly want to take the clothes off again, but didn't feel he had anything else to wear, since his jeans had mysteriously disappeared after he had left them in the bathroom yesterday, and since his underwear and t-shirt had seen far better days.

Ignoring his feelings of discomfort, Harry stepped away from the mirror and went to explore the fortress, now that he knew that Voldemort and Quirrell would be otherwise occupied for quite a while.

* * *

Harry had spent hours walking from room to room, exploring the fortress, and had realised that for most part, the second and third floor consisted of bedrooms and bathrooms, the first floor of sitting rooms, studies and libraries, and the ground floor of grand reception rooms as well as the great dining room that Harry had already visited a couple of times. Slipping around the ground floor, Harry had accidentally opened the door to Quirrell's room, but thankfully, the man hadn't awoken but had simply continued to snore. Just before carefully closing the door, Harry had caught sight of a strange, red shape on Quirrell's arm. He couldn't see exactly what it was, but committed it to memory to explore at a later date.

Next, he travelled into the cellars and found a grand, well-lit kitchen where the stocky little house-elf Grimly was busying himself with baking bread. Bowing out of the room, after a short greeting, Harry travelled down a second set of stairs and found himself in front of a heavy iron gate that looked like something that might have been the entrance to a boiler room if this had been a muggle residence.

With great curiosity, Harry pushed the door open and slipped inside. The room was cold and very dark, and seemed to be some sort of potion-making room by the looks of it. Along one of the long walls were rows upon rows with shelves where countless bottles, boxes, cauldrons and scales were stocked. Along the opposite wall stood a long bench, most certainly dedicated to potion-making, usually. What was currently sitting on it made Harry frown as he stepped closer, casting the Wand-Lighting Charm in order to see better.

At once when the light came on, he saw a long line of what looked like bird nests, and inside each of them lay one white egg with a toad on top, brooding. Harry frowned in puzzlement. So this was what Voldemort was using the thirty toads for ... But why? Studying the nests a little bit closer, under the watchful gaze of the toads, Harry could come up with nothing. Was Voldemort breeding more toads? But toads didn't lay eggs, did they, Harry mused and shook his head.

Deciding to do what Hermione would have done in his situation, he exited the room and headed towards the grand library he had found on the first floor. As far as he was concerned, the house tour was over, even though he hadn't been able to find the entrances to the two towers he had seen from outside the fortress. Since he hadn't found Voldemort's dwellings, he suspected that one of the towers contained his private chambers.

Coming into the library, once again seeing the vast number of books at his disposal, Harry sighed, realised that his research would probably take all day, and begrudgingly set to it.

* * *

The sky had started to darken and Harry was still seated in a comfortable velvet armchair in the library, surrounded by piles of books, skimming trough them one after the other in search for clues. He had soon realised that toads were, in general, extremely boring creatures that could do pretty much nothing magical besides soak potions through their skin, which made them excellent subjects for potion brewers to test their potions on. Other than that, Harry hadn't found anything useful from looking up toads, so instead he had started looking up what kind of eggs might be involved.

Currently, he sat skimming through a slim book called _Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them _that had appealed to him since it was short and fairly easily written. To switch things around, he had begun reading from the end of the book, and had started to blindly search for another with a lazy hand when he suddenly sat up straight and started to re-read a passage with rapt attention.

 _The first recorded Basilisk was bred by Herpo the Foul, a Greek Dark wizard and Parselmouth, who discovered after much experimentation that a chicken egg hatched beneath a toad would produce a gigantic serpent possessed of extraordinarily dangerous powers. The Basilisk is a brilliant green serpent that may reach up to fifty feet in length. The male has a scarlet plume upon its head. It has exceptionally venomous fangs but its most dangerous means of attack is the gaze of its large yellow eyes. Anyone looking directly into these will suffer instant death._

So this was what Voldemort was doing, Harry thought to himself mid-way through the short text about Basilisks, staring blindly at the words and imagining what such a creature could look like. Shivering with revulsion, Harry wondered how Voldemort was supposed to control not one but _thirty_ of these enormous snakes. If they were as dangerous as the book said, would they really take orders from a wizard?

Reading on, Harry learnt that the Basilisks could grow as old as nine hundred years, and that apparently something called Parselmouths could control them. He didn't know what that was, but since it sounded like something right up Voldemort's alley, he supposed that the Dark Lord had to be one.

"You've been keeping yourself busy, I see."

Slamming the book shut at once, Harry snapped up his head and saw that Voldemort had snuck up on him, and was now standing in front of his armchair, eyeing the troves of books on the floor. Levelling his gaze onto Harry, Voldemort looked torn between suspicion and amusement.

"I never pegged you for someone who would enjoy literature," he said slowly, dropping his gaze to look at the book in Harry's lap. "But something is telling me that you are not cooped up here, kicking your feet back and reading for pleasure."

"I –"

"And I do think, by now," Voldemort interrupted before Harry got the chance to say anything, "that you should be quite aware of what a bad idea it is to attempt to fool me."

"Yes, sir," Harry said quietly and averted his gaze. "I was trying to find something."

"And what was that?" Voldemort asked with great suspicion.

"What you were doing with the toads in the basement," Harry confessed quietly and waited for Voldemort to start snarling at him. Therefore, he was quite confused when Voldemort simply chuckled lightly at him.

"I see. And did you find anything?"

"You're not mad?" Harry asked, daring a look at Voldemort's face, finding that it now looked perfectly calm.

"Why would I be angry when you have broken no rules and have, without any encouragement, decided to spend the entire day studying?" Voldemort asked with a smile. As Harry sat gaping at him, Voldemort took out his wand and conjured another armchair, which he then sat down in. "So," he said when he was seated, "did you find what you were looking for?"

"You're breeding Basilisks," Harry said, encouraged by Voldemort's utter lack of hostility.

"I am," Voldemort said simply with a humoured expression.

"So, that army you spoke of," Harry continued, "is going to consist of Basilisks, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"But," Harry insisted, leaning forwards in his chair, "if you're going to use Basilisks as ... soldiers? How will you control them – I mean, I don't know what Parselmouths are, but the book said that only they could control Basilisks ... So I suppose that you are one?"

"I am," Voldemort said, and, in contrast to Harry, leaned back comfortably in his chair. "A Parselmouth is a wizard who can speak to and control snakes."

"Oh," Harry said, frowning, "so is it only Parselmouths who can speak to snakes?"

"Indeed."

"But," Harry said then, "aren't you afraid that another Parselmouth is going to be able to control them too?"

"Certainly not," Voldemort replied. "Parselmouths are extremely rare, and as far as I know, I am the only one with that ability left in Britain."

"No you're –" Harry blurted before shutting himself up. How was it that he always seemed to recklessly provide information about himself whenever he was having a conversation with Voldemort?

"Please," Voldemort said and leaned forwards in his chair, eyes gleaming with intrigue, "do continue."

Harry sighed deeply. "I think I might be a Parselmouth too."

"That is ... truly fascinating," Voldemort exclaimed in a thoughtful hiss, eyes fixed on Harry's scar. "Receiving such a talent from a bloodline such as yours ... must be considered impossible, which must mean ... that you have received some of my traits from our connection."

"Then," Harry said, licking his lips, which had gone dry for some reason, "do you think that you've got something from me, too?"

Studying him in silence for a long time, looking to be going through theories inside his head, Voldemort finally answered. "It is not ... entirely impossible. Although ... I have not noticed anything different about my qualities since your soul chard latched onto me. It is, of course, something that I will have to investigate thoroughly."

They sat in silence for a while – Voldemort mulling things over with one of his hands slowly caressing his chin, while Harry sat building up his courage to confront the Dark Lord with something that worried him.

"You're not going to kill people with the Basilisks, are you?" he finally blurted, using the same technique as he would ripping off a band aid.

Voldemort first looked surprised, and then, he was back to looking amused. "What else would you use an army for, Harry?"

"I ... I guess, but," Harry said, licking his lips again, "this isn't going to turn into a war, is it?"

"That depends," Voldemort said with a leer.

"On what?" Harry asked, afraid what the answer would be.

"On whether they will bow down to Lord Voldemort without encouragement, or if he will have to persuade them."

Harry swallowed nervously, not liking the sound of that at all. "So you won't stop until you've conquered the wizarding world?"

"Exactly."

"But that's terrorism, isn't it?" Harry demanded, growing a bit angry when Voldemort's smile didn't falter.

"Whether you want to call it terrorism or revolution is a matter of perspective, really. I would like to see myself as a liberator, coming to the aid of those who are currently suppressed and treated as the underdogs. Others might see me as a tyrant, but that is merely because they are afraid of change."

Harry wasn't sure he either understood or believed any of that, but didn't find any way that he could argue against Voldemort without sounding like an idiot.

"Although I've found myself enjoying our little talks," said Voldemort after another short silence, "it is growing late, and you need to clean up this mess before dinner."

The both of them arose from their seats, and while Voldemort banished his armchair, Harry bent down to start picking up books.

"I must say I am relieved to see you in a clean set of clothes," Voldemort said, watching as Harry balanced a pile of books in his arms. "How is the fit?"

"It's good," Harry said, "almost a little too good ... Except for the shoes – they're a bit too big."

"I see," said Voldemort and pointed his wand at Harry's feet. Immediately, Harry both felt and saw how they slowly started to shrink. "Tell me when to stop."

Once the shoes felt like a nice fit, Harry did so, and was finally left to his own devices. Marvelling at how normal Voldemort seemed to him, now that he wasn't out doing strange rituals and killing people, Harry started to put all the books back into their places, not noticing when Dobby slipped out of the room to go back to his duties, and to punish himself for eavesdropping on his master for the second time that day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Four

* * *

Two days of rest. _Two_. Severus ground his teeth together, casting dark glares at the letter lying atop the mantelpiece, and threw a handful of Floo powder into the hearth. With a deep sigh in resignation, knowing it was no use struggling, he stepped into the green puff of flame and smoke.

"Hogwarts," he drawled coldly and was instantly shot up the chimney and into the intricate maze of brick and soot that was the Floo network. A few moments later, his feet hit solid ground, and in a flurry of green flame and grey soot, he stepped out of the fireplace in Dumbledore's office.

Severus flicked his wand to banish the layer of grime covering his entire body and took a look around the empty office with a raised eyebrow. _Nobody here? What sort of hospitality was this supposed to be?_

"Professor Severus Snape," said a loud voice to his right, and turning around with feelings of utmost indifference, Severus found that it had been one of the portraits who had spoken. "Welcome back, young man," said the old croon Severus recognized as Dexter Fortescue, holding his grotesque ear trumpet pressed up against his haggard face. "Headmaster Dumbledore kindly asked me to direct the guests to the Great Hall, where the meeting will start as soon as everyone is present ... Oh, I suppose it must be upon your arrival, young man – indeed, you are the last of the guests to arrive and –" Fortescue cleared his throat pointedly, "– quite late, if I might be so bold as to voice my own opinion –"

Ignoring the portrait completely once it had given him the directions, Severus headed out the door and slammed it closed behind him, successfully interrupting the old man before he could indulge in even more of his _opinions_. Severus swore silently to himself as he travelled down the spinning staircase and then strode through the overly familiar corridors towards the stairwells. He _hated_ opinionated people – particularly when they had opinions on matters that in no way concerned them; a category into which just about every single person Severus had ever met landed themselves.

Grumbling about how one should not be forced back to one's workplace during one's much-needed vacation, Severus stalked the castle soundlessly, feeling his black robes flap satisfyingly around him. Even before he had entered the Great Hall, Severus heard the nauseating sound of cheerful people making small talk. Sneering, he pushed one of the double doors open and slipped inside.

The room looked just about as it normally did during semesters, except that the head table had spouted another set of chairs on its opposite side. Sitting around it were thirteen people in total; all of which Severus recognised either by appearance or acquaintance; none of which Severus liked. But then again, there were vanishingly few people whose company he genuinely enjoyed.

"Ah," called out Dumbledore in his slightly hoarse but yet firm voice, arising from his seat in the middle of the table, efficiently making everybody else fall silent and look up at the newcomer, "Severus – excellent! Please have a seat."

As he stalked across the room, headed towards one of the empty seats in the left end of the table, Dumbledore kept talking at him. "I am, of course, as I said to Minerva only a minute ago, sorry to have called you back here at such short notice, just two days after you left. But I am afraid, on account of these dire times, it was necessary. I can only say that I am glad you could make it."

 _Could make it_ , Severus thought to himself in spite as he took a seat, _as if I had any choice in the matter_. "Naturally, Headmaster," he drawled noncommittally, and watched through narrowed eyes how Dumbledore beamed at him and then sat back down.

"Dear friends," Dumbledore said then, "old and new – I would like to welcome you all to Hogwarts. It has been, if you'll all excuse me, quite wonderful to not have had to see you for so long. And by that, I mean, of course, that it has been bliss to have lived in such peaceful times. Nevertheless, here we are, and the times are not quite as calm – you all know, of course, that Harry Potter has not yet been found, and it is the fear of many that he is truly lost."

Quiet murmurings could be heard around the table at that as the guests couldn't contain their feelings of regret. Severus barely held himself from rolling his eyes at them all. Where had they been when Potter had needed support this past year? Where had they been when Severus has saved Potter from curse after curse after curse? Someplace else, he told himself, because they hadn't _cared_ about him then. They hadn't even realised the danger he had constantly been surrounded by. But now, they all jumped on the bandwagon, like good little good-doers. _Pathetic_.

"Has there been no news on Potter's case?" inquired old Elphias Doge from Dumbledore's right, scrunching up his wrinkled face in sadness.

"It has been confirmed that Potter is not still here at Hogwarts," Alastor Moody stated grumpily, having his magical eye trained on Remus Lupin, as if he was watching his movements closely; a notion that made Severus smirk. "Some students swore to having seen Quirrell fly out of the castle, carrying a black rabbit in a cage, and the Aurors are fairly certain that that was Potter, transfigured into an animal for easy transportation."

"Yes, but isn't that old news?" Emmeline Vance claimed with a frown. "The papers have fed us all this piece of information for quite some time now –"

"What the papers believe is plausible, and what the Aurors can conclude after thorough groundwork, are two completely different matters," Moody growled back at her with both eyes standing at attention.

"Yes, I understand that," Vance stated with raised eyebrows, "but there must be something more? Is there really no trace of the poor boy?"

"Not so far," Kingsley Shacklebolt uttered simply. Severus instantly liked him a little more.

"Although there hasn't been any sign of Potter," said Minerva McGonagall sombrely, making a short pause after uttering the boy's hate-inspiring surname, "I believe Severus has some news to share with us."

All eyes instantly settled onto him, and Severus pressed his teeth together hard as Dumbledore sent him en encouraging nod. "I happened upon an oddity in Little Hangleton two days ago," he stated through clenched teeth. "A diseased muggle man who had had one of his hands cut off – most certainly by magic, and by the looks of it, mere hours before I found him."

After a short silence, the infuriating voice of Remus Lupin piped up. "But, what does that mean, Severus? Do you think that that man had some sort of connection to Harry's disappearance?"

Fuming at the casual usage of his name, Severus glared at him. "It is not ... entirely impossible."

"Yes, that was a job very well done, Severus," Dumbledore said with another beam, which only made Severus' scowl deepen. "As it happens, I found myself in that area the very next day to have a closer look. Wonderful muggle village, Little Hangleton – just stunning, and it has its fair share of history as well, hidden in every odd nook and cranny ... After a short talk with some of the locals, I too travelled to that same house where Severus had found old Mr Frank Bryce, just to stumble right into a muggle investigation. What I found interesting, and what many wizards tend to overlook, was their way of using dogs to scan the area."

"Dogs! _Really_? That is just ... fascinating," said Arthur Weasley fondly, quite uselessly interrupting Dumbledore just as he seemed to be about to finally say something interesting, receiving a reprimanding slap on the shoulder from his plump wife.

"Quite," answered the Headmaster with a smile. "What I had not been expecting was that the animals would lead me and the policemen, not into the house, but around it and over the hill to what looked like an abandoned church with a small graveyard. What they found there was a small pile of ash, suggesting a fire had been lit there recently. And even more intriguingly, they noticed that one of the graves had been meddled with. Upon further investigation, the Muggles soon concluded that something, their guess was a small animal, had dug up some bone out of the ground."

"A fire and the usage of bones," grumbled Moody. "That sounds like ingredients for some dark ritual to me."

"Did the tombstone give any clues as to who might be behind this?" asked tiny Dedalus Diggle to Severus' right, turning his purple top hat around in his hands nervously.

"It did," Dumbledore said, and now, everybody was visibly at the edge of their seats. Severus frowned in thought – this whole graveyard-episode was news to him. "Lord Voldemort."

As one, the guests gasped in outrage, some covering their ears with their hands; others flying back in their seats, as to get as far away from Dumbledore's sudden exclamation as possible. Severus himself hissed under his breath at the free usage of the Dark Lord's name.

"Y-Y-You-Know-Who!?" exclaimed Mundungus Fletcher in an undignified squeak, exchanging a panicked look with Sturgis Podmore across the table.

"What do you mean by that, Dumbledore?" Moody demanded in a growl. "He Who Must Not Be Named has long since been dead."

"No," Dumbledore disagreed in an airy voice, "he was merely banished to some far-off place to bide his time. Now, with the help of Quirinus Quirrell, whom we all thought was firmly on our side –" _Not I_ , thought Severus spitefully, recalling how he time and time again had tried to argue with Dumbledore about Quirrell's shady behaviour, "– he has not only taken both Harry and the Philosopher's Stone into his possession; I also have reason to believe that he has now managed to restore some sort of body for himself."

Severus paled dramatically. "Headmaster," he gasped, "what makes you think –"

"Outrageous, Dumbledore!" exclaimed old Doge, arising from his seat. "Absolutely outrageous! You have to excuse me, but how do you suppose we should believe that You-Know-Who is _back_ ... without proof? What do we have to go on, Dumbledore? Your word?"

"Sit down, yeh impatient old man," roared Hagrid, slamming a thick fist into the table so that it groaned in protest. "Good Professor Dumbledore always has un explanation, so listen well."

"That is quite all right, Hagrid," said Dumbledore kindly. "I can speak for myself. Elphias, to answer your question; there are certain pieces of clues which make me believe that Voldemort lies behind this, and it is possible that my old mind has decided to come to a faulty conclusion. But if I might be so bold as to brag a little, I would like to say that throughout my long life, I have very rarely been wrong."

Sending the Headmaster a dubious look, Doge sat back down and kept his mouth shut.

"I believe that Voldemort was possessing Quirinus Quirrell's mind the night of his disappearance – what clues me in is not only the fact that he successfully managed to fight trough all obstacles protecting the stone, but also managed to lure it into his possession before _flying_ out of the castle. Now, the power to lift off the ground and fly is quite unheard of, and only an immensely powerful wizard could manage it. Admittedly, Quirinus Quirrell was a strong wizard, but yet not _so_ strong.

"I do also have reason to believe that that dark ritual you spoke of earlier, Alastor, was a very old one deriving from the 12th century Spain, combined with some use of the Philosopher's Stone which would have strengthened its properties. The ritual itself, named _Muerte convertido en la carne_ , uses flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy, and bone of the father – all of it ingredients we know Voldemort was in the possession of. We have evidence that Mr Frank Bryce was robbed of a hand, which could mean that he was considered a servant and had to sacrifice his own flesh for Voldemort. We also know that Harry was there, and as an enemy, surely had to sacrifice some of his blood. Lastly, the grave which I spoke of a moment ago belongs to no-one other than Voldemort's own father."

"His father!?" Fletcher exclaimed, his face turning a nauseating green hue. "Perish the thought. Must 'ave been a nasty bloke, that."

While most of the other members smiled at his quite unnecessary comment, Severus felt a strong urge to tear a big chunk of hair out of the top of his head. To beat some sense into the conversation, he decided to speak. "If those deductions prove to be correct, Headmaster, the Dark Lord is back to full power, and would be gathering his forces as we speak."

"Yes, I am afraid so," said Dumbledore, and a sombre silence laid itself over the company like a thick blanket. "That is the main reason why I have deemed it necessary to call you all here this evening." Dumbledore arose and let his gaze travel from one end of the table to the next. "Friends, I hereby call upon the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Who will answer?"

One by one, they all rose, simply saying "I will" as confirmation.

Once everyone was standing, golden cups filled with white wine appeared in front of each guest. Holding up his own cup on a toast, Dumbledore then spoke again. "We stand as one; we fight as one; for the greater good!"

"For the greater good!" Their call rang through the Great Hall, and as they all put their cups to their lips, Severus merely pretended to drink.

* * *

Dobby was sad and very worried. He had never ever dreamt of landing himself in this sort of situation. He had been born into service under the Malfoy family, just like his father before him, and his father before him, and his father before him, and so forth. That he would be handed over as a gift for He Who Must Not Be Named was completely unexpected, and so horrible Dobby had first thought he was having a bad dream.

And now, he was working in a new place, with new house-elves ... and with _Harry Potter_ , Dobby reminded himself in order to cheer up. How he had landed himself here Dobby didn't know, but he was incredibly happy to have finally met him, and to finally get to be a good elf to him; within the lines of his new master's restrictions, of course. Although, Dobby had to confess that he didn't always stick to what his masters told him. Sometimes he felt he just _had to_ break their rules, even though his conscience always caught up to him in the end, making him punish himself for his bad behaviour.

Being the servant of He Who Must Not Be Named had proven difficult for Dobby. He not only had conflicting feelings of loyalty to his master and hate towards the Dark wizard who nearly destroyed all that was good in the wizarding world, but he also constantly found himself in positions where he felt the need to spy on his master.

Dobby knew his master was up to no good, even more so than evil Lucius Malfoy had been, because He Who Must Not Be Named was going to start another war. Dobby also knew that since he knew that that was what his master was up to, he couldn't stand just sitting around without doing anything to hinder it.

He didn't know yet what he could do, but he did know that Harry Potter could not stay on this island with He Who Must Not Be Named, because it was _dangerous_ for him. He couldn't make out what his master was going to do to Harry Potter, but he knew that it couldn't possibly be anything good.

So for Harry Potter's sake, Dobby tried to listen in on his master as much as he could allow himself, in order to find out how he could get him off the island and back to safety. Dobby knew it was impossible for him to use his magic to directly disobey his master, and he had also been told that he could not, under any circumstances, leave the island, but he was determined to find some way around it.

This was why Dobby was constantly covered in bruises, cuts and burns nowadays, since he was constantly punishing himself for being a bad house-elf. This was also why he currently found himself being outside in the middle of the night, hiding behind a tall tree at the edge of the rocky shore, to keep an eye on his slippery master.

So far, Dobby had no clue what he was up to. The only thing he could see was that he stood staring out at the water edge, seemingly at nothing. He had been standing there for about ten minutes now, just looking, and Dobby had started to suspect that nothing would happen. _Sometimes_ , he told himself, _wizards are just weird_.

He was just about to Apparate back to the fortress when the mood suddenly changed. It was as if a dark shadow had stolen over the island, making it seem even more horrible and dangerous than before. Dobby watched with wide eyes as some dark shape moved closer and closer to the shore, moving soundlessly over the dark water. When it came close enough for Dobby to see, and close enough for his master to touch if he wanted to, it stopped, and instantly, Dobby just _knew_ what it was. _A Dementor_.

It was very tall, covered in some ghost-thin black fabric that coiled around it in the wind, and out of the darkness of its hood sprouted three tall, black shapes that looked to Dobby like upside-down icicles. _A crown_ , he thought in stark fear, feeling so deep a despair that he couldn't help but Disapparate. He had some very severe punishing to do.

* * *

The moon shone brightly over the dark waters all night, before descending below the horizon, being replaced by a glaring sun that warmed the island to unbearable degrees the higher it rose on the clear blue sky.

Ten hours after the Dark Lord had left the shore, his place was unknowingly taken by Harry, who had decided to spend another day staring out at the ocean whilst trying to find a way to escape. It didn't take him very long to realise how futile his attempts were; he hadn't learnt any new spells since yesterday, and he no longer had any hope that Hedwig would come to save him. Nowhere around the island could he spot any sign of land, or ships passing by. He was completely isolated from the outside world – muggle and magical.

With a strong feeling of apathy, Harry sat down, leaning against the side of a big rock, watching the lazy waves roll in against the shore. Despite being enveloped by shadow, Harry soon felt how his black robes started to warm his body to an alarming degree, making the ocean surface in front of him more and more inviting.

Growing up with the Dursleys, Harry had never had the chance to learn how to swim properly. He could splash around and keep himself above surface, but anything beyond that was completely out of his comfort zone. Then again, the water looked quite shallow, so he should be safe as long as he stayed relatively close to shore.

Deciding that it was far too hot for second thoughts, Harry started stripping until he was only clad in his black briefs. Hesitantly, he put his wand down on top of his folded pile of clothes, and started trekking towards the water.

With a hiss of pain, and a grimace to match it, he tried his best to avoid stepping on the rough stones that made up the shore. Telling himself that it was going to be over as soon as he reached the water, he kept on, and was completely discouraged once he came close enough to see that the rocks weren't exchanged for sand below surface as he had hoped. Instead, they only seemed to get bigger, in addition to being covered in billowing, green slime.

Frowning in annoyance, wondering how he would ever manage to enjoy a good swim like this, Harry wished there was some way he could make the rocks soft to walk on.

Not the rocks, he realised suddenly, hopping back to his pile of clothes with excitement. Enjoying the feeling of soft grass against his sore feet, Harry picked up his wand with a smile, aimed it against one of his soles and said " _Spongify_ ". Watching with delight as the bottom of his foot swelled a little, turning rubbery and bouncy, Harry repeated the procedure on his other foot and merrily stepped back onto the rocks to test the result.

With a little laugh, Harry hopped around the rocky surface, not feeling any pain at all; the Softening Charm had worked wonders. He ventured out into the water, splashing, laughing and just enjoying the way it cooled his burning skin down to manageable degrees. The slimy seaweed felt a little disgusting rubbing against his feet as he walked around, but he soon became used to it and started thinking of it like walking on grass under water.

Once he had grown used to being in the ocean, he settled down into a sitting position, being covered up to his chest by water. He sat like that for quite some time, looking out at the horizon. It didn't take him long to come down from his high, however, and he soon grew bored. With a sigh, he therefore started thinking of other things he could do to occupy his time.

Standing up and picking out his wand from where he had stuck it into the side of his boxers, Harry watched as droplets of water formed beads and simply slipped off it, as if the wooden surface was covered in a layer of plastic. Smiling with affection for his wand, getting a warm feeling from holding it in his hand, Harry tried to come up with a spell he could play around with.

The first thing that came to mind was the Levitation Charm. What would happen if he tried to levitate some water?

" _Wingardium Leviosa_ ," Harry said and focused on a section of water in front of him. To his delight, tiny droplets of water immediately flew out of the water, hanging mid-air in front of him, looking like rain that had been frozen in time. Laughing, Harry dropped the spell and watched the pebbles of water fall back down, hitting surface with a tiny _splash_.

 _What more can I do_ , thought Harry with an excited grin.

* * *

"Very well, Lucius," said Voldemort and arose from the gold and blue coloured French Empire bergère he had been seated in for the better part of the forenoon. His host hurriedly copied his motions, keeping his attentive grey eyes locked on his Lord as if determined not to miss a thing about him. "That will be all for now. I will, of course, expect your attendance tomorrow night."

"Certainly, my Lord," said Lucius smoothly, making a short bow towards him, "I will be awaiting your call most eagerly."

"Good," Voldemort said with a thin smile. "Your service and your donations have proven invaluable to me these last couple of days. Know that Lord Voldemort will always repay such generosity."

"Thank you, my Lord," Lucius gushed with pleasure coating his eyes, "I am glad that the gifts have been to your liking. Know that if there is anything at all that you find yourself lacking, My Lord, I and the rest of the old wizarding families will be happy to provide."

 _So ready to kiss the ground I'm walking on_ , thought Voldemort with a mixture of disdain and glee, _so ready to bend the knee now that I am back to my former glory_. "Very well, I must admit that your gifts have proven ... most insightful so far. The fortress is steadily being filled up with furniture and wares ... Although, I must ask – how is it possible that you knew to provide clothing, not only for your Lord, but also for his young ward?"

Flattered to such a degree that he looked about to burst with pride, Lucius made another short bow. "It is only natural, my Lord, for the father of a boy the same age to think of such things. It sounded to me, when you mentioned the boy, like you had some grand plans for him, and at once I thought it necessary to provide for him as well. I am glad my Lord found the gesture ... insightful."

"Indeed," Voldemort answered quietly, appraising his blushing servant for a moment before taking out his wand with a flourish. "Good bye, Lucius."

"Good bye, my Lord," answered his servant at once, falling to one knee just as Voldemort made a turn and soundlessly Apparated back to Ravenclaw Cliff.

Arriving in the study located on the first floor of his tower, Voldemort smiled and took a deep breath of the ocean air streaming through the open window to his right. _Everything was going according to plan_. _Now, the only thing that remained was a little fine-tuning, some very particular alliances that needed to be tested, and then Phase One would commence._

He was startled out of his gleeful reverie by the vague sound of distant laughter. Striding over to the open window, he looked out and was met by the sight of young Harry Potter, standing waist-deep in the open ocean, creating little balls of water with his wand that he then flung up on shore, looking to be aiming at one of the trees at the forest edge. Chortling in victory once a ball hit its target, Harry kept up the game with childish enthusiasm.

 _Well, he is a child_ , Voldemort reminded himself as he stood watching with a thoughtful expression on his face. _Behold the only thing that is distinctly not going according to plan_ , he then thought, drumming his long fingers on the windowsill. _Lucius thought I had some grand plans for the boy, which is quite ironic, since I have not yet decided what I'd best do with him_.

His first plan had been to extract the soul-piece from his human Horcrux in order to relocate it inside a far more stable container. He had tried to do this on the first night he spent in the fortress, while the boy was asleep, being non-the-wiser as Voldemort stood by the bedside, trying all sorts of spell-work on his unsuspecting mind.

As it had turned out, his soul had been so intricately woven together with Potter's own it was impossible to detach it in one piece. It had been about as easy as trying to separate a mixture of two bowls of water from each other. Voldemort suspected it was possible, after some very involved research, to find a way. However, he had neither the time nor the energy to spare at the moment, so if he were to choose that route, it would have to wait until he held the wizarding world in his hand.

As for what to do with Harry, he had several options at his disposal.

 _Kill him and just be done with it_ , hissed one part of him.

 _No, every piece of your soul is far too valuable,_ hissed another, immediately contradicting his previous train of thought.

 _Lock him up where he cannot cause any damage_ , hissed a third part of his soul, hastily making plans of tossing Harry into the deep caves below the fortress and throw away the key.

 _No, that will be a waste,_ hissed a fourth voice, _you can use him_.

Feeling how the majority of his soul agreed with that statement, Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the boy, who was still playing around in the water.

 _He needs you_ , hissed a fifth voice from such short distance, Voldemort felt a sting of longing inside his chest. He immediately recognised that the comment had come from the part of him that resided inside Harry, and pondered on the validity of the statement.

 _Did Harry need him_? _And more importantly, did he need Harry?_

There were certainly some very redeeming qualities to the boy. At the mere age of eleven, he was sharp-minded enough to recognise the limitations of the freedom he had. He was also extremely inquisitive and eager to do what he felt was right. And as far as Voldemort could tell, the confinement had not made him wallow in sadness – quite the opposite. It seemed that the boy was both inventive and independent enough to find a way to entertain himself. And, more importantly, the confinement seemed to have sparked a desire to use and develop his magical abilities – something that Voldemort had felt the boy sorely lacked, judging by what he had seen of him during his year inside Quirrell's head.

All of these qualities were not what he had been expecting from an eleven-year-old, and he strongly suspected that the influence of his own soul had sped up the boy's mental development by at least a couple of years.

 _Perhaps_ , Voldemort thought to himself with a spark alighting in his deep red eyes, _the best use of young Harry is the one my enemies are least expecting._

* * *

Harry was having far too much fun, but he didn't care – he had finally found something to take his mind off his dire situation. Currently, he was immersed in the result of his experiment with the Fire-Making Spell performed under water. To his delight, the result was that the section of water he was focusing on was ever so slowly warming up. _So if I would try this on, say, a bowl of soup_ , Harry thought, _would it be set on fire or would it just heat up_?

Readying himself for trying out the Dancing Feet Spell on another section of water, Harry was quite startled when a sudden _pop_ sounded next to him.

"Harry Pot–" he heard before the sound was replaced by a _splash_ and an array of gurgles. Hurrying to grab the small house-elf by the waist, Harry hauled it out of the water and saw that it was Dobby.

"Thank you so much, Harry Potter, sir," gasped Dobby with water streaming down from his floppy ears. "You saved Dobby's life – how will Dobby ever repay kind Harry Potter?"

And to Harry's horror, the elf burst into desperate sobs, making fat tears start to blend with the water cascading down his face. Deciding to find a place where he could put Dobby down, Harry trekked back to shore, trying to hold the elf far enough from his body so that he wouldn't end up with a blob of snot on his chest.

Once back on safe ground, Dobby slowly calmed down, producing a very dirty-looking handkerchief out of thin air before blowing his nose in it.

"What happened to you?" Harry asked in outrage as he took in the sight of the small elf, and realised his entire body was covered in cuts and bruises. "You're hurt!"

"Oh," Dobby gasped and sniffled. "This is nothing, Harry Potter, sir, that you should concern yourself with. Dobby is needing to punish himself sometimes. Dobby is a bad elf, you see. But don't worry, kind Harry Potter, Dobby is fine."

 _He doesn't look fine_ , Harry thought to himself but decided he'd best keep his mouth shut if he didn't want to upset Dobby further.

"Master sent Dobby to take Harry Potter back inside," said Dobby once he had calmed down a little, and looked up at Harry with bulging, sorrowful eyes. "Dobby doesn't know why he is wanting Harry Potter to come, but don't worry – Dobby will keep watch and protect good Harry Potter from master, even though he will have to nearly kill himself afterwards."

With wide eyes, Harry hurried to dissuade Dobby. "No, please Dobby, don't do that. I think I can handle it."

Dobby's lip started quivering, and he shook his head firmly. "No, Harry Potter cannot stop Dobby. Dobby wants to keep Harry Potter safe, and he will do it, no matter what Harry Potter says." And with that, Dobby clamped his mouth closed firmly, refusing to say anything more on the matter.

Resigned, wondering how he would ever get Dobby to understand that he didn't want him to hurt himself for his sake, Harry told him to wait while he dressed, cringing a little at the discomfort of putting on dry clothes on top of soaked underwear. Once dressed, Harry followed Dobby up the country road to the fortress, thinking up wild scenarios of what Voldemort could want with him. Growing more and more nervous the closer he came to his destination, Harry dutifully followed the elf into the entrance hall, up the stairs and into the familiar sitting room on the first floor.

Harry looked around the room for Voldemort, and found him standing to the right in front of one of the bookcases, calmly scanning the book spines with his glaring red eyes. "That will be all, elf," he said quietly without turning around, and with one last determined look at Harry, Dobby disappeared with a _pop_.

"You asked for me?" said Harry after an extended moment of silence, trying his best to look unaffected as Voldemort levelled his gaze onto him.

"Indeed," said Voldemort calculatingly, as if he was weighing every syllable before uttering it. "I noticed that you seem to have developed an interest in magic, at last."

 _Oh shit! Had Voldemort seen him_ , was Harry's first thought, before he steeled himself. _Having an interest in magic was not a bad thing, was it_?

"Yeah ... I mean, I was interested before but ... I hadn't really thought of what I could do with the spells I know before today ..."

"As for example," Voldemort mused, turning around to face him properly, "drying your underwear before putting on clothes."

Blushing, Harry looked down and saw that his wet boxers had left a visible, wet patch on the robes around his hip-area. "Y-Yes, sir," he murmured, trying to think of a spell to fix that. "I don't think I know the right spell for that," he confessed a moment later, when he couldn't think of anything.

"How about the Hot-Air Charm?" Voldemort mused, giving him a questioning look.

Harry gulped. "I don't know that one, sir."

"Would you like to?"

Harry stared at Voldemort quite rudely, thinking that he might have misheard. But when Voldemort merely raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Harry hurried to answer. "I would!"

"Very well," said Voldemort and walked over to stand next to Harry, picking out his wand and holding it up in front of him. "The wand-movement is a little complex, but I will walk you through it."

After a couple of minutes of practice, Harry had got the hang of it, and tried his luck with performing the spell.

" _Vapor_!" he tried, but nothing happened.

"You're using a British r-sound," Voldemort stated calmly. "Make the sound with the tip of your tongue. _Vapor_!"

Harry had to try a couple of times more, recalling that he knew a few other spells that also relied on such a pronunciation to work properly. At last, a gush of hot air started streaming out of the tip of his wand, and following Voldemort's direction, Harry slowly dried his garments with it.

"Very good," said Voldemort once he was completely dry. "You're a fast learner."

 _I am?_ Harry hadn't known he was, but Voldemort seemed pleased with him, and having gotten to know the Dark Lord these last couple of days, Harry had soon learnt that he was far from a patient man, so he supposed he had to be.

"Thank you, sir," he answered quietly, trying to mimic Voldemort's smooth way of speaking.

"Would you like to keep learning, Harry?" Voldemort asked then, making Harry's heartbeat speed up as he, once again, thought that he had misheard.

"I'm sorry, but what do you mean?" he asked carefully, starting to feel a bit disoriented.

"I mean," Voldemort said with a smirk, "that I intend for you to become my apprentice."


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Five

* * *

"Wh-What?" gasped Harry in outrage, cheeks burning and ears ringing with his thundering heartbeats, all thoughts of speaking calmly forgotten. "What do you mean by that?"

Voldemort watched him for a moment, not saying a thing, which made Harry feel desperate for clarification.

" _What do you mean by apprentice_!?" he demanded forcefully, immediately receiving a scornful glare from the Dark Lord.

"Watch your tone," Voldemort said in a dangerously quiet voice, and a spark of slight pain alighted in Harry's scar. "Do you not know what an apprentice is, Harry? Do you need clarification?"

"No, but why would you do that?" Harry groaned as the pain intensified, making him shoot fearful looks up at Voldemort's scowling face. "I thought ... you're just keeping me prisoner!"

"Have you forgotten everything that I have told you so far?" hissed Voldemort testily. "Our souls are connected."

"But I don't _understand that_ ," exclaimed Harry in a voice that was breathless with fear. "I don't want that!"

"Why do you think it matters what you want?" Voldemort demanded in a forceful hiss, and Harry's head started swimming with light-headedness, and he started sinking down to his knees from the pain in his scar. "There is nothing you can do about it."

"I don't care! I just want to go back! I don't want to be here!"

"Why do you cling to the hope that you will escape me when I am the only thing that keeps you alive?"

"I don't want to!" Harry screamed through the haze, barely registering how tears started to stream down his cheeks. "I hate it here! I want to go back! I HATE YOU! YOU EVIL MONSTER!"

" _CRUCIO!_ "

The next thing Harry knew, he was lying on his side as a pain worse than that of one thousand white-hot knives, boring into his skin shot through his entire body. In the next moment, it was all gone, and a terrifying _crash_ of broken glass sounded from behind him, accompanied by a furious roar with a snake-like quality to it.

Harry lay shivering on the floor as the ruckus stopped, clutching his throbbing head, biting his cheeks so as to not let his sobs escape and interrupt the eerie quiet that had settled in the room.

Many minutes passed during which the only sound was of the glass slowly being refitted into the windows. Harry still lay shivering on the floor when the sounds stopped. At once when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, he bolted upright and sprinted for the door, but was instantly halted when the door slammed shut in his face.

"Show me some _respect_ , Harry," hissed Voldemort at him from right behind his back. "Turn around and look at me when I am speaking to you."

Harry slowly turned, keeping his back pressed against the door, and got a blurry view of his furious captor since he was so close that Harry had to look up over the rim of his glasses to see him.

"I do not think you realise what an honour this is, Harry," Voldemort said then, calculatingly. "To become Lord Voldemort's apprentice – the only one he has ever taken – to be taught the most powerful kinds of magic by he who will have the wizarding world at his feet ... you should be pleased."

Harry dearly wished he could be somewhere else – anywhere else – and he realised that in order to get as far away from Voldemort as possible, he would have to act pacified for a little while. "Yes, sir," he managed in a shaky voice and thanked his poor eyesight that he didn't have to see the expression on Voldemort's face.

Another stretched out moment of silence commenced, before Voldemort backed away from him with a sigh. "Step away from the door," he then commanded and waited as Harry slowly did so. Once he was at safe distance, it swung open and immediately, Voldemort slipped through the opening and into the hallway, calling "Come," behind him.

Harry tried to keep a few metres between them as they walked down the staircase, through the corridor towards the dining room, through a door to the left just before the end of the hall and then into a nook Harry hadn't spotted before.

It was a small room cast in dark stone, and the only thing in it, besides the wooden door and two extremely slim windows, was a deep blue curtain in what looked like velvet. Voldemort quietly demonstrated how there was nothing behind it by pulling it back for Harry to see. Then, he let the fabric fall and simply looked at it.

" _Let me in_ ," Voldemort then hissed in an inhuman voice that sounded strange to Harry's ears, but yet completely comprehensible. At once, a rich blue tassel dropped down the curtain, and when Voldemort pulled it, the curtain came apart in the middle, revealing the entrance into an even smaller room than the one they were currently in, containing a spiral staircase. "Only a Parselmouth can reveal this passage," Voldemort stated quietly as they entered the stairwell.

"All right," Harry answered and jumped in surprise as the curtains fell closed behind him, leaving him in darkness save for the sparsely distributed candles here and there on the walls that lit the room up to some extent.

Following Voldemort up the spiral stairs, counting to four levels, they finally arrived at a landing with a single door in the middle of the wall. They walked through it and entered a circular room that looked like an office.

 _I guess we're in one of the towers, then_ , thought Harry and had a look around. In the middle of the room, under a handsome chandelier, stood a square wooden table on top of a big, circular Persian rug. On top of it lay a map with a bunch of little figures on it, placed in different constellations. To the right stood three heavy glass cabinets with wooden frames, containing a bunch of weird-looking objects of varying sizes. To the left was a comfortable-looking sofa group in blue and silver, accompanied by a handsome fireplace and low coffee tables, onto which heaps and heaps of books lay in what looked like an organized mess. On the curved wall, over the longest of the sofas, hung a huge, golden-framed painting of what looked to be the cliffs outside of the fortress during a clear star-lit night. Standing there, looking out at the waves, was the very same girl who used to come visit the painting in Harry's own bedroom.

Blinking, Harry turned away to keep inspecting the room. At the far wall was a handsome desk with a high-backed chair behind it; a set that was giving off a teacher's desk-feel to Harry. Along the wall behind the desk was a curved bookcase, whose shelves were gaping empty here and there. And lastly, to the left of the entrance, next to a coat rack with a single black cloak hanging from it, was another door, which Harry thought might lead to the upper levels of the tower.

"This is my office," Voldemort announced, quite unnecessarily, Harry thought, "into which only I ... and now you, are allowed admittance ... This is one of your privileges as my apprentice."

Keeping his mouth firmly shut, despite having a million questions popping up unannounced in his head, Harry nodded his head. "I see."

Next, Voldemort gestured towards the door to their left. "Through that door, you will find two sets of stairs. The first takes you to my quarters, and I do not think I need to point out to you what a _bad_ idea it would be for you to attempt to enter them ..."

"No, sir," Harry hurried to say, and secretly wondered what sort of things Voldemort kept in there if he didn't let anyone other than himself in.

"... The second level of stairs will take you to the attic, which the house-elves have started busying themselves with transforming into your new bedroom. I cannot very well have my apprentice sleep in a simple guest room, now can I?"

"I see," said Harry again, not sure if the Dark Lord was expecting him to be grateful or something.

"Have a seat," Voldemort said then with a short look, before turning around and walking over to one of the cabinets. He picked a small golden key out of a robe pocket and opened up the glass door while eyeing the second-to-topmost shelf, which was crammed with flasks containing all sorts of potions by the looks of it.

As Harry walked across the room towards one of the sofas, he made eye-contact with the girl in the portrait, who smiled up at him with recognition. "Good day," she said before turning back to her previous activities.

"Good day," Harry muttered before sitting down in the sofa and returning his attention to Voldemort, who was coming towards him, a flask filled with a bright yellow potion held delicately in one of his hands.

"Drink this," he said and handed the flask over after pulling out the stopper.

Harry accepted it and carefully lifted it to his lips, keeping his eyes suspiciously locked on Voldemort all the while. Once the potion came in contact with his tongue, he recognised the taste of white chocolate, and instantly felt a comforting warmth spread all over his body, chasing away the residue tension after being in a world of pain.

"What is it?" Harry couldn't help but ask, temporarily having forgotten that he was supposed to stay quiet.

"A private concoction," Voldemort answered airily and sat down in the sofa to the right side of Harry's. "Made from fluxweed, butterscotch, white chocolate, amongst other things ..."

Now drinking more frivolously, Harry had soon emptied the entire flask, and when he handed it over to Voldemort he received a pleased look, followed by a thoughtful one. After a moment's silence, Voldemort spoke.

"How our confrontation downstairs turned out was ... most unfortunate. I had not intended to harm you – quite the opposite. Your own actions were indeed ill versed, however, they did not warrant ... such severe punishment."

Harry blinked. Once. Twice. _Was that an apology_?

For one short moment, a look of stark discomfort crossed over the Dark Lord's face, before an expression of pure indifference took its place. "Very well. Shall we discuss your apprenticeship?"

"All right," Harry answered quietly, feeling it was no use arguing at this point – it wasn't like he could do anything to dissuade Voldemort after all, and bluntly refusing obviously meant torture ...

"Good," Voldemort said and seemed to relax the tiniest bit, adjusting his position into a more comfortable one with his legs crossed. "Firstly, what I intend is that you, in time, shall reach my own level of expertise. I will teach you the basics and administer your progress, but I also intend for you to do a fair share of self-study. Secondly, in addition to your schooling, I will use your assistance in certain areas, and I will expect you to be ready to get involved in my work when needed."

"What do you mean 'get involved'," Harry asked with suspicion. Voldemort didn't expect him to start a war with him, did he?

"It could mean that you help tend to the fortress when I am absent, or that you accompany me to a meeting in order to learn from experience how to handle political allies – rest assured that I will not expect you to perform above your ability, however."

 _That's a relief_ , Harry thought and let out the breath he'd been holding. _He isn't going to make me head into battle or something_ ...

"Do you have any questions?" Voldemort asked with a stoic expression. "Or is it all right if I pose some to you?"

Harry felt that the questions he wanted answered were so many, he couldn't safely pick one without risking enraging the Dark Lord with his inquisitiveness. "Go ahead," he said quietly and wished the conversation would be over soon.

Voldemort nodded his acceptance, not letting his red eyes stray from Harry's face for even a second. "Are there any particular areas of magic you enjoy more than others?"

"Oh," said Harry, who hadn't expected that kind of question. "Well, I liked learning Defence Against the Dark Arts, even though Quirrell wasn't much of a teacher."

Voldemort nodded again. "On that we can agree."

"I also liked Charms, I guess ... Oh! And I love flying."

Surprisingly, Voldemort actually chuckled after he said that. "Indeed, the news of your affinity for broomstick-flying was so widely spread, it even reached my ears." Harry felt himself flush a little, but didn't say anything. "How about Transfiguration?" Voldemort asked next.

"It was all right. I still don't see why we had to practice on animals so much, since it seems weird that we would keep doing that after school, but otherwise it was pretty neat."

"Indeed," said Voldemort with a small smile. "Did you enjoy Potions class?"

"Definitely not," Harry answered immediately, thinking of Snape with a dark scowl.

"Was it because of the subject itself, or because of some other reason?" Voldemort wanted to know, instantly picking up on his change in demeanour.

"I really didn't get along with Snape," Harry said with a grimace, "and it didn't help that we shared that class with the Slytherins."

"That is good," Voldemort answered, smiling to himself as if enjoying some private joke. "In that case, your dislike towards the subject is a social construct and not an intellectual one. How about History of Magic?"

"Hated it," Harry said, and before Voldemort could demand an explanation, he continued, "because of the teacher."

"I can see that," said Voldemort, once again with that strange smile on his face. "Herbology?"

"I dunno," Harry said, "I didn't really dislike it, but I didn't like it much either. Same goes for Astronomy, really."

"Very well," said Voldemort, giving him a thoughtful look. "In that case, it seems like spellwork is what interests you the most. Not bad. Not bad at all."

Having the strange feeling that he had passed some sort of test, Harry kept quiet and impatiently waited for the Dark Lord to finish up his questions so that he could be dismissed at last.

"Is there anything in particular you wish to learn more of?"

After a moment's hesitation, Harry replied. "I guess I'd like to learn more about the wizarding world. I've sort of realised how little I actually know in the last couple of days ... I'd also like to learn something more _useful_ , if you know what I mean? Knowing how to make a pineapple tap-dance is pretty neat, but I don't really know when I would use it. Same goes for transfiguring something into a snuffbox ... why do they teach that to kids anyway?"

Smiling, Voldemort nodded to him with approval. "You are absolutely right. And those are good choices. May I suggest learning some choice defence spells as well? Those always seem to come in handy."

"You would teach me that?" Harry blurted in surprise, a feeling of excitement starting to spread inside his belly, making it flutter.

"Naturally," Voldemort answered simply, and Harry couldn't stop a wide smile of excitement from spreading on his lips. "How often would you say you use Parseltongue?"

"Err," Harry uttered, feeling the smile slip off his face, "I don't ... I haven't used it, I think, except that one time at the zoo ..." Seeing Voldemort's inquisitive mien, he decided to explain. "A year ago, my aunt and uncle let me go with them to the zoo, for Dudley's birthday. We were in the reptile house when one of the snakes started responding to me when I spoke to it. I thought I was going crazy, but then Dudley and Piers started behaving like total prats, and I accidentally made the glass window to the snake's tank disappear. Next thing I knew, the snake was escaping, thanking me for the help and making plans for moving to Brazil."

During his short story, the corners of Voldemort's mouth had curled into an amused smirk, and now, he chuckled the tiniest bit. "And that is the only experience you have of Parseltongue?"

"I guess, yeah."

"I see," Voldemort said, sobering up, although his eyes were still sparkling. "That poses a problem, since you cannot access the west tower unless you know how to trigger your Parselmouth abilities." A lazy expression transformed the Dark Lord's face, and Harry felt weirdly that he couldn't look away from those red eyes. " _Good_ ," Voldemort whispered, " _focus on me_." Something about his speech seemed different – it was that strange inhuman voice again that Harry now realised must be Parseltongue. " _I want you to repeat everything I say._ "

Harry nodded silently, still transfixed by this odd, lazy feeling that seemed to radiate out of Voldemort's eyes.

" _Listen._ "

" _Listen,_ " Harry repeated, getting a strange feeling from his mouth, as if the word hadn't been shaped the way it usually was.

" _Focus on your own voice._ "

" _Focus on your own voice_." He now could hear that something was distinctly different about his own speech – it had this hissy quality, but oddly, it was still completely comprehensible to him.

" _Remember this feeling_."

" _Remember this feeling_."

Harry felt quite disoriented when the lazy expression on Voldemort's face simply disappeared, and the man arose from his seat and walked over to the square table in the middle of the room. With his back turned, he said, "Try to recreate that feeling. If it proves difficult, try imagining that you have a snake in front of you. And then, tell me something about your aunt and uncle, in Parseltongue."

Harry sat in silence for a while, and tried to imagine that he was sitting in front of the Boa Constrictor he had met at the zoo. But for some reason, the image wouldn't come to him properly. His mind kept returning to the image of Voldemort's eyes, and the lazy expression he had worn on his face. The more he focused on that, the more he felt that same strange feeling seep back into his body, and suddenly, everything clicked.

" _I hate Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia_ ," Harry hissed calmly. " _They are really horrible people, and I think they're really pleased that I didn't show up at their house this summer._ "

"Good," Voldemort hummed in a pleased tone, and turned around to face him. "Very good, Harry. Now, I think –"

 _Pop_! Suddenly, there stood a small house-elf at Voldemort's feet – Bleak, Harry recalled once he caught sight of her big blue eyes.

"It is ready, master," she said and curtsied. "Was there something else master wanted Bleak to do?"

"No, that will be all." With another _pop_ , the elf disappeared, and Voldemort turned back to Harry. "If there is nothing else you wish to discuss, I think you should go and make yourself comfortable in your new room. I have some business to attend to and will be leaving in just a moment."

"All right," Harry said and arose, "I'll just go –" With a hiss of pain, he fell back into the couch, holding his feet high above ground so as not to put any weight on them. Gingerly, he undid the straps of his boots and pulled them off, going wide-eyed as he saw that the bottoms of his socks were soaked with blood.

"What have you done?" Voldemort demanded and swept forwards. To Harry's surprise, he then bent down and took a hold around one of Harry's ankles, and then lifted the leg upwards as he arose, making Harry fall back uncomfortably in the couch. Next, Voldemort pulled off the sock from his captured foot, and Harry couldn't help crying out in pain as the dried blood was ripped away, opening up the sealed wounds. "Why are your feet in this state?" Voldemort demanded icily.

"I don't know," Harry gasped from his horizontal position. "I hadn't noticed."

Casting him a disbelieving look, Voldemort took out his wand and started waving it over Harry's bloody sole, making the skin knit together as he chanted in a soft voice. Once the foot was healed, Voldemort unceremoniously dropped it back onto the ground, so that the heel hit the ground painfully. Next, he picked up the other foot and ripped off the sock before Harry had time to steel himself, making him scream with pain.

"Were you not mindful of the rocks at the shore? Did you not feel any pain when they cut into your skin?"

"I didn't know," Harry panted as Voldemort started to heal his other foot, "I had cast a Softening Charm on them so that I would be able to walk properly."

"I see," said Voldemort in a short tone and dropped the other foot, but this time Harry was prepared and held it upright before lowering it to the ground himself. "Let this be a lesson, then," said Voldemort coldly. "Just because you can use magic to manipulate your own body, it does not make you invincible. You have to always mind your surroundings, or you will get yourself injured like this."

"Yes, sir," Harry answered quietly, feeling stupid as he recalled how much he'd been jumping around on the rocks after transforming his feet. How he hadn't realised that the rocks were still just as sharp as before he couldn't fathom. "I'm sorry."

"Well then," said Voldemort, stretching out his hand towards the coat rack standing in between the two doors, and a black cloak flew from it and wrapped itself around his shoulders. "I shall take my leave. Don't get into any more trouble while I am gone, Harry."

"I won't," Harry promised and watched as Voldemort gave him one last look, turned on the spot and soundlessly disappeared.

* * *

Quirinus let out a deep sigh in relief as he made way through the crowd of 11 to 13 feet tall trolls, squished together in the cave where they had gathered to listen to his conditions.

Overall, it had gone smoothly, even though two of the chieftain's sons had nearly ripped each others' heads off at one point before Quirinus could placate them and reassure them that they would both get to feast on human flesh if they agreed to his terms.

Some of the lower ranked trolls, who had not managed to squish themselves into the cave, but had had to stand outside to listen instead, watched him with beady eyes as he walked down the steep mountain road, and then Disapparated.

 _Five done, two to go_ , Quirinus thought to himself as he appeared on top of another mountain, which was inhabited by a clan of mountain trolls he had not made contact with before this point. He knew that the chieftain was supposed to be named Gnaugwalft, and that he was rumoured to be the one of the largest trolls in Britain.

Steeling himself as he trekked up the steep mountain side, knowing he could show no fear or it would all be over before he could even manage to stutter out a single plea for mercy, he looked around the bare landscape for any sign of troll activity.

What he saw were some trees that had been broken in two, some smashed pieces of rock and some leftover pieces of raw fish – which was what trolls usually ate nowadays since they normally could not get their hands on a healthy diet of human flesh. All signs told him that he could see a troll at any moment in these surroundings, and sure enough, as he rounded a rough cliff wall, he came face to face with one.

It was huge, naturally, and had a big floppy stomach onto which a pair of soggy breasts rested. Its feet were twice the size of its head, Quirinus noted and readied himself as the troll came out of its stupor and saw what it thought to be a ripe meal. Tottering forwards, much like how a toddler would move, it came towards him, but before it could reach down to snatch him, Quirinus shot a Stinging Hex right into its flabby belly.

Uttering an array of guttural sounds, he proclaimed his domination over the troll and asked for a peaceful exchange. The troll charged at him three times more before it got enough Stinging Hexes to start listening to him. Whimpering pitifully, it scrambled up the hill towards what looked like a cave. _Great_ , thought Quirinus as he followed it, _more caves_.

The troll had started howling about him inside the cave once he finally reached its opening, and curious eyes were looking out at him from the darkness.

"Gnaugwalft!" he called, hoping his source had been right about the name. Next, he made his business clear, trying to instil some comprehension in the intelligent ones, and some more fear in the stupid ones.

After a long moment of waiting while a myriad of different troll voices had started to prattle inside the cave, everything went silent. _Here it comes_ , thought Quirinus and steeled himself, and sure enough – not one moment later the heavy sound of giant feet slamming against rock could be heard, coming closer and closer to the cave opening.

Soon enough, a swelling, giant body was revealed, and Quirinus almost swooned. His source had been absolutely right – this troll had to be at least 15 feet high.

The first thing Gnaugwalft did once he caught sight of the little wizard was roar an extremely fright inspiring roar, and Quirinus felt how his knees started to shake.

"Gnaugwalft!" he called out once again, hoping beyond belief that this would turn out to be an intelligent troll.

The chieftain narrowed its beady eyes down at him, and showed its teeth as a warning.

Doing his best to act as a diplomat, Quirinus started placating the troll, showing that he was not intending to cause harm. To his enormous surprise, Gnaugwalft understood him perfectly, and actually answered him in English.

"What tiny wizard coming here? Gnaugwalft land! Leave now!"

"Business," Quirinus said, watching the troll's expression carefully for any sign that he would lash out at him. "I am a friend of trolls, and I want to help."

"Business," Gnaugwalft growled down at him, "human bad, evil creature, have money want _more_ money. Human help human, not troll. Troll help troll!"

The trolls inside the cave were getting restless, and Quirinus knew that if he didn't do something soon, any hope of alliance with this clan would prove impossible. "Dorschnak!" he called out in a commanding voice, naming one of the clans he had already claimed as allies. "Hobovodul! Goggolov! Ewmog! Duffolomom! They are my friends. I want you to be my friends too!"

The atmosphere was tense, and the chieftain was watching him closely with a thoughtful expression, which explained why it took him so long to decide what to answer. "Human help troll?" he decided upon at least, and Quirinus drew a relieved breath. At last, the negotiation could commence.

* * *

The steel grey potion had finally started to simmer, but it would have to wait. Severus turned off the flame and put the cauldron to the side with deft hands, clenching his teeth against the pain that had started to spread along his left arm. Carefully rolling up the sleeve of his robes, he saw that his mark was burning black, and the sight took him back to memories of a horrifyingly dark time when he had had to fight for survival on an everyday basis ... back to a time when all his hopes and dreams were squished under the heels of two forces that were pulling his strings like some sort of grotesque puppeteers.

Would everything become so muddled in darkness and hopelessness, once again?

Severus let all feelings seep away as he cleared his mind, feeling the calm trickle down over his mind like soft summer rain. Once he had collected himself, he took out his wand and pushed the tip onto the Dark Mark.

He was instantly whisked away as if by Side-Along Apparition, and soon appeared in a dark forest, surrounded by bilberry shrubbery, moss-covered rocks and tall fir-trees. In front of him stood a young man, looking to be about Severus' age, and if it hadn't been for the startling red eyes, Severus wouldn't have recognised the Dark Lord. After all, last time he saw him, his appearance was far paler, and with a pasty complexion that had made him look sickly.

Coming out of his stupor, Severus fell to his knees and bowed his head in respect. "My Lord," he said, shaping his voice into one of reverence.

"Tell me, Severus," said the Dark Lord in a quiet voice that had a certain melody to it that Severus found himself extremely unused to, "how have you been?"

Momentarily stunned by the casual question, having expected far more direct speech, Severus made an effort of emptying his mind of all feelings of discomfort before speaking. "All things considered, I am in good health, my lord."

"As am I," said the Dark Lord in an unreadable tone of voice, "all things considered ... But I find myself curious – how has life as Dumbledore's lapdog treated you?"

Severus barely caught himself before sneering at the notion that he was being compared to a _dog_ ; the most hateful creature he could think of. "My Lord, I –"

"You reek of lies, Severus," the Dark Lord said in a voice that was finally laced with some emotion; sadly, it turned out to be anger. "Have you come to detest me these past years of absence, or were these feelings already deeply rooted in you from the very start of our acquaintance?"

Unable to calm his speeding heart, Severus enhanced his feelings of despair and put a lid on his vehement hatred. "Please, my lord, I swear to you, my loyalty has always been for you and you alone."

"Oh, I deeply doubt that," hissed the Dark Lord at him, circling his kneeling form like a wolf readying itself for a pounce. "For how many years have you been working as Dumbledore's right hand? How many times have you betrayed me under his orders?"

"My lord, I swear, I was merely acting under _your_ orders to infiltrate and convince Dumbledore and his Order of my sincere alliance."

"Yes, but you became comfortable in your role, did you not, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked in a silk-soft voice. "Your place at Dumbledore's feet turned out to work in your favour, and you started to let go of your former beliefs. And now, all that is left of you is a hollow, double-tongued shell of a man who trembles in fear before his former master."

"Former? M-my lord, please –" Severus managed to gasp before he was hit in the back by a furiously painful Cruciatus Curse, that made him fall down onto his hands and knees as a world of pain swam around him.

"If you have anything to say in your defence before I end your poor excuse for a life, I suggest you start talking," threatened the Dark Lord in a terrifying hiss, and once he had fallen silent, the curse was lifted, and Severus shakily got back into his kneel.

 _This is it_ , thought Severus, trying to calm his racing heart _, this is the moment I have been waiting for these past 11 years_. An eerie calm settled over Severus' mind, and he slowly got back up on his feet and turned around the face the wrath of the Dark Lord.

"Yes, you are right," he spat out in the Dark Lord's face, "I detest you! I hate you with every fibre of my body – just like I have ever since you robbed me of the only person I have ever truly loved. When you _murdered_ Lily Evans, my faith in you turned to dust. Ever since that day, I resigned from you and your cause, and I rejoiced in the fact that you had been bested and turned into _nothing_."

Why the Dark Lord let him speak so freely without interrupting or showing any sign of a reaction, Severus did not know, but he quite frankly did not care. All that mattered was to finally get to say the words he had been burning to say ever since _that day_.

"But you are sorely mistaken if you assume that I swore myself to Dumbledore the moment you disappeared." Severus let out a bitter laugh. "How could I ever align myself with a man who proved such a disappointment to me – who had sworn to save Lily's life, but didn't even manage to keep her hidden. When she was so cruelly ripped from me, I only had one thing left of her that could bind my life to the world of the living ... and that was _her son_. I made an Unbreakable Vow to protect him to the best of my capabilities, and that is the only alliance I have ever truly sworn myself to, body and soul. But now, you have even taken _that_ from me. That last glimmer of zest for life that I had, knowing that, at least, I could keep Lily's son safe. But you murdered Harry Potter ... and I failed Lily. So if you wish to kill me, go ahead – I have nothing left to live for."

Completely calm, fully aware that he had finally found peace, he pulled out his wand and let it drop to the ground and out of his reach. Next, he held out his palms in surrender and closed his eyes, readying himself for death. A feeling of deep warmth started to spread all over his body, and he felt with certainty that he had finally done something right. Something that Lily would approve of.

He was completely dumbfounded when the silence was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a very slow applause. _Oh god, he's going to drag this out, isn't he_?

"Some honesty, at last," said the Dark Lord in a cheerful tone of voice that sounded extremely cruel to Severus' ears. "I stand corrected, and I must admit; your diligence is very impressive. To love one person to such a degree, for so many years, even after her death, that you dedicate your life to her son is ... quite incomprehensible to me, in truth, but still very impressive. I suspect that you will be gladdened by the news that I have in fact _not_ killed Harry Potter."

Severus snapped his eyes open and couldn't contain his dumbfounded expression. "Excuse me?" he breathed out.

The Dark Lord smiled a cruel smile at him, looking extremely gleeful. "I was not aware that your hearing had deteriorated to such a degree, old friend. I said that Harry Potter is very much alive. He is safe and sound, and under Lord Voldemort's protection."

"But _why_?" asked Severus in a quite undignified manner, and received a shark-like smile in response.

"He has proven to carry ... a lot of value to me," revealed the Dark Lord with an amused spark dancing in his eyes, "and if you truly wish to keep him safe, I suggest you get over your hatred towards my previous actions, and prove yourself valuable to me once again."

With a final gleeful snigger, the Dark Lord Disapparated, and Severus was left behind in the deep forest to contemplate the fact that his duties had not yet come to an end. Slowly, the corners of his mouth curled into a pleased smirk.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Six

* * *

Harry awoke to the crack of thunder and a flash of light, startled awake, sitting upright in the bed, not knowing at first where he was. Looking up through the open ceiling of the four-poster bed, which had been moved from his previous lodging to his current, he saw a pointed space with wooden rafters crisscrossing all the way down to where the stone walls began. In four places on the walls were tall and slim windows, facing each of the four cardinal points. Outside of the slightly blue-stained glass, the rain was pouring down and the sky was dark as night.

Between the windows pointing east and south was the door which led out of the tower; between the windows pointing south and west was a grand wardrobe into which all of Harry's new clothes had been neatly stacked by the house-elves; between the windows pointing west and north stood the bed, which had a pair of bedside tables on each side, currently empty; and between the windows pointing north and east was an empty space, save for the painting that hung on the wall, depicting calm waves rolling in on a rocky shore.

Harry lay back onto his pillows with a sigh, wondering if he would be able to get back to sleep or not. He mulled over yesterday's developments, wondering why Voldemort had decided to make him his apprentice. Why did he want, exactly?

 _You have a piece of his soul inside your head_ , came a thought unbidden to Harry's mind, _and you've got a piece of your own in his head too_. Despite thinking about it, Harry couldn't quite grasp what that meant – what were souls anyway? He knew Christian belief spoke of souls, but he hadn't ever been a particularly religious person, and this seemed very different from that somehow.

 _A soul is who you are, besides your body_ , he thought, wondering where he had learnt that, _a body without a soul can stay alive, but it cannot live_.

Blinking, Harry tried to imagine a body without a soul, and got a vision of a pair of empty eyes in the face of a haggard man, crumpled together in tattered clothes, staring blindly into a wall. _A soul without a body is what Voldemort was when he possessed Quirrell_ , Harry thought while shivering in disquiet from the vision.

 _A soul is precious as life itself, and since you carry a piece of his with you, you are precious to him_ , thought Harry in one fell swoop, realising what it meant only after he had thought it.

 _So he wants to protect me_ , pondered Harry and felt a deep sense of dread. _He's never going to let me go, is he? If I can't escape, I'll be stuck here ... forever?_

 _Until you're powerful enough_ , thought Harry immediately, as if answering himself. That thought made his heavy heart lighten a little – he wasn't out of options yet. _And besides; he won't kill you, whatever you get up to. He might hurt you, but he won't kill you_.

 _Sort of like Dudley, really_ , thought Harry with a grin, feeling his spirit lighten as he sniggered at the comparison. _Except that Voldemort's won't attack me randomly_ , he realised a moment later.

His ponderings were interrupted by the _pop_ of a house-elf next to his bed, and he sat up to see which one it was.

"Hello Dobby," he said with a smile, "you slept well?"

Immediately, Dobby's huge eyes started tearing up, and he stared at Harry as though he had never seen him before. "Harry Potter is asking Dobby if Dobby slept well," he gasped in between sobs, making Harry feel extremely uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry Dobby, I didn't mean to make you sad."

"Sad!" Dobby exclaimed. "Dobby is honoured that Harry Potter cares how Dobby sleeps, sir. Harry Potter is truly a great wizard! Dobby is so glad to know Harry Potter, sir."

"Err," said Harry, scratching the back of his head, "sure. You're great too, Dobby."

After uttering that statement, Harry, to his great horrification, had to spend five minutes calming Dobby down from his tear-filled sobs of gratitude and praises. Once he had finally settled, Harry sat back down onto the edge of his bed with a tired sigh, rethinking how friendly he should act with Dobby around.

"Did you want something?"

"Dobby comes to tell Harry Potter that master wants him to go down to breakfast, sir," Dobby said, looking really nervous about something, casting worried glances to his right and left as he spoke. After a short pause, he leaned forwards and started whispering. "Dobby also wants to let Harry Potter know that Dobby has been ... looking at master when he doesn't know ... and Dobby knows what kind of wizard he is. And Dobby knows that he wants to keep Harry Potter – but Harry Potter cannot stay. It isn't safe, and Dobby is going to do what Dobby can to help Harry Potter."

"I ..." whispered Harry, after a moment's stunned silence, "I see. Well, what ... what are you going to do?"

Dobby's ears sank on the sides of his head, making him look very sad. "Dobby doesn't know yet," he whispered. "Master has forbidden Dobby to do a lot of things ... but if Harry Potter could come up with something to ask of Dobby, that master hasn't forbidden yet, perhaps Dobby could help."

Then, Dobby straightened and cleared his throat. "Master wishes Harry Potter go down to breakfast now, sir." And with a _pop_ , he was gone.

Harry slowly got out of bed, thinking on what the little elf had told him as he picked out a set of robes and underwear from the closet and started to get dressed. What could he ask that Voldemort hadn't already thought of? Harry was sure that he had set up the same rules for the elves, if not more, as he had for him. That would mean that Dobby couldn't leave the island or contact anyone, so whatever he was going to help Harry with would have to be in the fortress ... or perhaps outside, on the island. But what could it be?

Still deep in thought, Harry made it down one set of stairs and into the crescent moon-shaped bathroom, located next to Voldemort's bedroom, which he was going to share with the Dark Lord by the looks of it. If he had understood Voldemort's cryptic description correctly, his new bedroom had been a simple attic before the house-elves furnished it yesterday, so there had never been any use for a separate bathroom there.

Trying to get over the odd feeling of using the same facilities as the Dark Lord, Harry got ready and eventually travelled down the next set of stairs into Voldemort's office, and then down the long spiral staircase to the ground floor.

Focusing on the feeling he got when Voldemort taught him how to speak Parseltongue yesterday, Harry hissed, " _Let me out._ " At once, a tassel fell down over the curtain, and after Harry had tugged it once, the fabric came apart in the middle, admitting his exit.

Once he had exited the small nook where the passage to the stairwell was hidden, he travelled down the short hallway, made a left turn and entered the dining hall, where Voldemort and Quirrell were seated, having already finished their breakfast by the looks of it.

When Voldemort looked up at him, a bright white light lit up the room from outside the windows, just before the sharp _crack_ of thunder was heard.

"Th-Th-That w-w-was a c-c-close one," squeaked Quirrell, staring out the window with impossibly wide eyes.

"Good morning, Harry," greeted Voldemort after casting a disgusted glare at his servant, clearly disapproving of something so mundane as fear of thunder.

"Good morning, Voldemort," Harry said and walked over to his usual seat to Voldemort's right, feeling a bit lightheaded with giddiness as he started testing the waters around the Dark Lord. Knowing he was in no danger of dying was quite liberating, really.

Quirrell had seemingly forgotten all about the thunder once he heard that word leave Harry's lips, and now sat gaping at him with a terrified expression. The expression on Voldemort's face, however, was completely unreadable.

"Such familiarity," he said quietly, barely moving his lips. "I honestly do not know which is worse – your blatant disrespect, or Quirrell's persistence in calling me _master_ when I became his _lord_ a few days back."

Quirrell looked about to faint at this point, and Harry felt quite sorry for him as he sat down at the table, instantly getting a whiff of the mouth-watering scent of scrambled eggs and bacon.

"M-M-Master, I d-d-don't mean t-t-to –"

" _My lord_ , Quirrell, we are not master and servant any longer," Voldemort said in a toxic hiss that made Quirrell's already pale complexion pale further, even though it hadn't seemed possible.

"M-M-M-M-My l-l-l-lord," Quirrell stuttered in a squeaky voice that reminded Harry of house-elves.

Looking like he had swallowed a lemon, Voldemort leaned forwards in his seat, inching his face closer and closer to his follower. "Do you not have anybody else whose air you can contaminate with your nauseating presence?"

Almost falling out of his chair as he scrambled to retreat, Quirrell hurried out of the room in a flurry of purple fabric.

"Why do you have to be so mean to him?" asked Harry, keeping his eyes locked on his plate as he started eating, trying to ignore the way his traitorous hands were shaking.

"Disobedience must be punished, and as it has turned out, disobeying is one of Quirrell's few talents," Voldemort said in a quiet voice that was laced with anger. "Hence, he must be punished frequently for all of his crimes, all of which vary in degrees of severity ... Ah, and speaking of crimes; I will not tolerate you use my name so flippantly, Harry. As of yesterday afternoon, we became master and apprentice, and consequently you should refer to me henceforth as master. Do you understand?"

"No," said Harry, putting his cutlery down on each side of his plate, wanting to see how far he could push it. "I won't call you that."

There was a low hiss of displeasure, and once Harry had set his jaw and dared to look up from his plate, he was pierced by a furious red glare that held him captive.

"I believe we have already established the consequences of your disrespecting superiors, have we not?"

"You'll hurt me, yeah," Harry said, suddenly infused with courage in the face of danger. "So what if you do? You can't kill me, can you, or you'll just kill yourself as well."

"What makes you think," Voldemort hissed in an icy voice, "that that fact alone would give you free reign to act however you wish?"

"You need me for some reason," Harry accused. "You need me to do as you say, but I won't. I don't need to."

"So you think I need you, do you?" The Dark Lord's tone of voice had turned mocking, and Harry felt his blood run cold in his veins.

"Yes," he said uncertainly, "you do. You said you did."

A horrible, deceptively sweet smile spread onto Voldemort's lips. "Did you really think that doing you the kindness of making you into an apprentice would be my only option? What do you think happened to my other, less useful, Horcruxes, Harry?"

"I-I don't ... what do you mean? What are Horcruxes?"

"You are far from the only vessel for my soul shards, you silly little boy," mocked Voldemort acidly. "I can assure you that they are all safe behind locks and bars, left in darkness for centuries until I have use of them."

Harry felt himself pale at that notion, imagining what it would be like living like that for centuries.

"I could very easily lock you up and throw away the key if that would prove necessary. Would you like that better, Harry?"

Filled with dread, not feeling an ounce of his previous giddiness, Harry quickly shook his head.

"Then, I strongly suggest you make yourself useful, and stop challenging your superiors," Voldemort finished with a dark glare.

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered, resigning himself to his fate, feeling crestfallen. With no hope of escape, and with a great fear of being locked away in what he imagined as some dark space, as if he were back under the stairs at the Dursleys, he lowered his head and decided to do as told.

"Master," Voldemort corrected him in a demanding tone, and Harry tried very hard not to grimace, but he failed.

"Yes, _master_ ," he whispered as quietly as he could, imagining all his friends and teachers watching him with disapproval, shaking their heads at him for using such a word for the Dark Lord.

They sat in silence for a few very long minutes, during which Harry did his best to stuff food into his mouth to force himself to calm down. Once all the food was gone, he kept staring into the plate, wondering if he could leave the table but not daring to ask.

After another minute, Voldemort spoke up. "Was your portion too small?"

Harry lifted his head and blinked up at him. "What?"

A deep sigh escaped the Dark Lord. "Are you still hungry? Did you not get enough food?"

"Oh ... No, no I'm fine," he said and scrambled to his feet as he saw that Voldemort was arising and stepping away from the table.

"With me," Voldemort clarified as Harry tried to slip away to the left as they started down the corridor towards the Entrance Hall.

Harry sighed quietly and followed at the tail of Voldemort's billowing black robes into the Reception Room, which was a large, rectangular room that was pretty much empty, save for a couple of tables here and there, as well as some simple armchairs standing in small groups along the walls. From the ceiling hung three very impressive-looking chandeliers in gold and crystal; the stone walls were covered in fabric tapestries, depicting medieval-looking sceneries of knights, witches, wizards, trolls, elves, ships, and castles; the stone floor was cast in a sort of diagonal chessboard pattern, with a thick black lining along the edges of the room. On the far wall, large windows let in the daylight – or what could seep through the thick blankets of storm clouds, anyway – and hanging down their sides were heavy velvet curtains in a deep blue colour.

Voldemort stopped in the middle of the room, and turned around to face Harry as he slowly came closer. "Since I have an hour to spare; let's begin your lessons." Saying that, Voldemort took out his wand and held it up for Harry to see. "It is said that the wand chooses the wizard, but I am afraid that _that_ is a blatant lie adults tell children to simplify something that most of them would not comprehend. It is far from that simple. Wands are not sentient – they are not aware and they do not act of their own free will. Wands are, however, _alive_ and depend on a clear message from the wizard wielding it to work properly. If, on one hand, the wizard is poor at spell casting, the wand will misinterpret his intentions. If, on the other hand, the wand is damaged to such a degree that it cannot understand its wielder, it will cast whatever it thinks the wizard intended.

"Wands are where magic originates – not the wizard himself. To cast spells, the wizard taps into his limited source of magical power, called mana. This power source limits how powerful spells a wizard can cast at a time, and for how long he can maintain a spell, depending on how large his mana pool is. When he is to perform a spell, the wizard sends mana from his spine to his fingertips, which connect with the wand and infuses it with power.

"How large a wizard's mana pool is decides what kind of wand he can use. He might use a wide array of wands, but they will work better or worse for him depending on how much or how little mana it requires, and what sort of spellwork it has an affinity for. One wand might be more attuned to transfiguration than others, while another wand might work better for curses. The same would apply for wizards, of course, which means that wands and wizards with an affinity for the same kind of magic is a good match. When a good match is found, the wand works properly; hence, the wand does not choose the wizard, nor does the wizard choose the wand. Is anything unclear so far?"

Harry asked for a few clarifications, all of which Voldemort, surprisingly, answered without any sign of impatience or irritation. After he felt he had understood what Voldemort had tried to teach him, Harry frowned as a thought occurred to him.

"If wizards don't have magic – how come I could make that window disappear in the reptile house? And how come I managed to turn Mrs. Gonzalez' wig blue that one time?"

Voldemort nodded to him once, while the corners of his mouth curled into a pleased smirk. "Underage accidental magic occurs when a child loses control of themselves and accidentally initiates a flow of mana, surging through their bodies and to the tips of their fingers." After pocketing his wand, Voldemort held up the palm of his hand for Harry to look at, wiggling his fingers a little to call attention to them. "This is where a wizard's mana leaves his body. All wizards can transform mana to magic, but only subconsciously. A frightened child who tries to save itself can perform this kind of magic by simply wishing to be saved, since that initiates a subconscious magical action. It is similarly easy for an angry child who wishes harm on somebody else to accidentally turn her wig blue, since it was a subconscious wish.

"There are, however, some children who learn how to control their subconscious; who can direct their mana flow by will and cast spells without a wand. This sort of magic is, sadly, much weaker than a wand's magic is. It is, in fact, very similar to the magic of house-elves, who are masters of their subconscious. That sort of magic might be used to levitate an object, light a candle, inflict mild pain or open a window, but it is far too weak to do anything more advanced. For that, a wand is the only option."

At once, Harry remembered how windows and doors seemed to magically open up for Voldemort seemingly on their own whim. "You have this sort of magic," he said with certainty, wondering if there was anything the Dark Lord actually _couldn't_ do.

"Indeed," Voldemort answered with a small smile. "I find myself curious; have _you_ ever consciously used wandless magic, Harry?"

"No," Harry answered, thinking back to those long nights in his cupboard, when he had been staring at the door, willing it to open. "It never worked."

"No matter," Voldemort replied, as if he had been expecting that answer. "Everything indicates to your mana pool being of a size matching my own; we do have intriguingly similar wands after all. I have a feeling your performance will be far from lacking."

Filled with wonder, barely daring to believe that he would ever be able to match the Dark Lord in anything, Harry stepped up next to Voldemort after being commanded to do so.

"What do you see around you?" Voldemort asked a moment later.

"Err, a room," Harry answered uncertainly, glancing up at Voldemort's calm face. "There are some chairs, tables and curtains ... and tapestries ..."

"Look deeper," Voldemort said quietly. "Look at the room like you looked at the ocean yesterday, when you were experimenting with your surroundings."

Blushing at the notion that Voldemort had _watched him_ play around, Harry tried to imagine what magic he could use in the room. "I see two doors that I could try to unlock," he said after looking behind his back. "I see some furniture and some fabric I could set fire to ... I could probably make the tables and chairs float, or move them around ... Actually, I could probably make them dance around the room too ..."

"Very good," Voldemort praised quietly, smiling down at him. "How about the chandeliers? What could you do with them?"

"I guess I could light the candles," Harry pondered, looking up at the nearest one of the three. "I could probably lift them off their hooks and drop them to the floor."

"Excellent," said Voldemort, turning to face him. "So if this room was suddenly invaded by people – enemies who wanted to harm you – you could set fire to the furniture, and to the attackers; you could drop the chandeliers on them; you could fling the burning furniture at them; you could make the attackers dance uncontrollably; and you could unlock the back doors to escape. Not bad. What is the first thing you do when you enter a room?"

Feeling slightly flabbergasted after having been faced with such a scenario, Harry couldn't think of what to answer. "Err ... I don't know, sir."

"Master."

"I don't know, master," Harry repeated quietly.

"You look for doors, windows and fireplaces," Voldemort answered patiently. "You need to be aware of all entrances and exits, so that you can be prepared even if the attackers enter from behind you, and so that you know where to flee if you find yourself overwhelmed. Why would this not apply in a public place such as, say, the Ministry of Magic?"

At a loss, Harry thought hard but came up with nothing. "I don't know, sir – _master_ , I mean."

"Wards," Voldemort stated, gesturing with a hand movement to the windows. "In a public place where any wizard is allowed entrance by means of Apparition or Portkey, and where you can escape by these means, entrances are fairly uninteresting."

"What are those things?" Harry asked, feeling confused.

"Wards?" asked Voldemort with raised eyebrows.

"No, err ... Portkey and something ..."

"I see," said Voldemort with a small smile, "you know less than I thought. You have actually travelled by Apparition at least two times, Harry. Do you recall moving from one place to a completely different one in a matter of seconds?"

"Yeah, I thought we were teleporting or something," Harry said and received a surprised expression from the Dark Lord. "Oh, it's a muggle thing – it's not real, it's something they've made up," he hurried to explain.

"I am quite aware of the term," Voldemort chastised him coldly. "I will advice you against trying to educate me, when, I assure you, I am quite well informed in most subjects."

"Sorry," Harry said, blushing, "I just figured that you probably wouldn't know much of muggle things ..."

"Do not draw conclusions when you have no proof," Voldemort said quietly. "To avoid future miscommunication, I will have you know that I have much experience with Muggles, since I was raised by them."

Harry couldn't help staring. "You grew up with Muggles?" he blurted in surprise.

Giving him an appraising look, Voldemort nodded. "We have more in common than you think, Harry ... Now, remember how wrong your conclusion was for future reference, and make sure to carry proof before making claims ... unless you mean to fool someone, of course. But if that were the case, you would have to stay close enough to the truth to sound convincing."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, and was met with a demanding stare that didn't relent until he caught on. "Master," he hurriedly said to correct himself, and let out a sigh in relief when Voldemort's red eyes stopped shooting daggers at him.

"Although the science behind teleportation is completely different from Apparition, the basics are the same," Voldemort explained. "A wizard who Apparates might travel from one place to another in a matter of seconds. The distance will be limited by the size of his mana pool, but as long as he is powerful enough, he can move across countries without trouble. Wards, however, will keep him out, and as such, there is no danger of anyone Apparating into this fortress or onto the island, since we are surrounded by domed wards.

"A Portkey, on the other hand, is an object which transports one or more wizards from one place to another. This means of travel is slightly slower, but safer. It might be a complicated process getting hold of a Portkey unless you are powerful enough to create your own. Wards might stop Portkeys from entering them, and they can also stop the third most common wizarding means of transportation. Do you know what that is?"

"Broomsticks?" Harry asked uncertainly, and received a smile from Voldemort.

"Indeed, that is correct, but what I thought of was the Floo Network." After seeing Harry's dumbfounded expression, he continued. "Travelling with Floo Powder through fireplaces, which is, oddly, what most wizards prefer nowadays. In sum; inside of powerful wards, you need to be aware of your entrances and exits; inside less powerful wards, you must keep an eye on the fireplaces as well; and outside of wards, you need to always be ready to Apparate if necessary – when you have learnt how to, of course.

"So," Voldemort said finally, turning to stand face to face with Harry, "you are standing in this room, alone, and a man you don't recognise charges in through the front doors, through the open archway and straight at you. You can see that his wand is pointed at you. What do you do?"

"Err," said Harry, feeling as if he'd been thrown out of the frying pan and into the fire, "I guess ... I'd probably try to stop him ... maybe, I could levitate something – maybe drop one of the chandeliers, like you said before."

"You could," Voldemort said, "but lifting a chandelier off its hook, aim and drop it over someone would take time. A manoeuvre like that would work far better if you did not stand in the line of fire. Say, for example, that the room was full of enemies, fighting a small group of allies and not paying any attention to you. In such a scenario, using a chandelier could work well."

"How about the Fire-Making Spell?" Harry asked, recalling their earlier discussion.

"That would work better," Voldemort agreed, "however, since the man is charging at you, it is probable that he is already firing offensive spells in your direction, and rather than attacking with offensive spells of your own, you should either dodge or defend yourself. Do you know any defensive spells, Harry?"

"I don't think so," answered Harry, wracking his brain for a moment, and realising, "wait, I do! Well, I haven't actually tried it myself, but Hermione used the Full Body-Bind Curse on ... on Neville ..."

"And I have used it on you several times," Voldemort finished for him when he trailed off. "Very good, Harry. That is an effective, defensive spell indeed. Have you ever heard of the Shield Charm or the Disarming Charm?"

"No, master," said Harry, eagerly wondering if he was going to get to learn those charms now.

"Very well," said Voldemort and moved to stand at Harry's side again. "Take out your wand." After Harry had done so, he continued. "Let us begin with the Full Body-Bind Curse, and continue on with the charms afterwards."

* * *

After finishing up his first lesson with his new apprentice, which had gone surprisingly well considering the little incident at breakfast, Voldemort travelled to his office, where he knew the house-elves had stacked a pile of letters onto his desktop.

Once he had entered the room and closed the door behind him, he was greeted by a cheerful "Good day."

"Good day, Rebecca," he answered; nodding to the portrait to his left as he strode across the room and took a seat behind his desk. "Would you mind keeping an eye on Harry today? The weather doesn't allow for playing outside, and I fear he might get up to mischief if he is left unattended for too long. I'd rather he not compromise any of the preparations for tonight."

"Of course," answered Rebecca with a sweet smile on her painted lips, curtseying at him before walking out of the frame to do his bidding.

 _It would be far easier to just lock him up somewhere where he couldn't get in your way_ , hissed one of his soul shards viciously, and Voldemort clenched his teeth as a spark of irritation ignited in him.

 _Easier perhaps, but not more profitable_ , claimed another piece. Closing his eyes around the irritation, Voldemort emptied his mind and started putting up walls around it, so that he could get some piece of mind. Horcruxes were certainly useful, but splitting his soul into pieces had certainly had its consequences.

Letting out a deep sigh as the voices quieted down behind the walls, Voldemort opened his eyes and reached out to the topmost letter in the pile, letting his hand hover over it for a moment as he searched for any sign of curses. After a short moment, he detected one that would have sent spikes of corruption through his fingertips into his blood, working as a poison, eating him up from the inside.

Sneering at such a weak attempt to end his life, he took out his wand and started to dismantle the curse. Once the curse was gone, he flicked his wand to open the letter and then let the message within hover in front of his face.

"A shame," he murmured to himself as he skimmed through the letter. It was written in bold letters with strong proclamations, but the content had already been given away by the curse that had been accompanying it. Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel were _not_ interested in allying with him in exchange for monthly doses of dust from the Philosopher's Stone. They would rather fade away and die than help him better the wizarding world.

"665 years of experience, wasted," Voldemort murmured with distaste as he flicked his wand and sent the letter into the crackling hearth, where it caught aflame and turned to dust. _No matter_ , he thought as he searched the next letter in the pile for curses, _that leaves more for my personal use. I only used a smidgen of dust during my resurrection – I'm sure the rest of it will cover centuries of keeping this body young_.

Finding the letter to be completely safe, he used his wand to open it up anyway, not feeling inclined to take any chances.

* * *

Harry couldn't help frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. These dress robes really made him look like a stuck-up pure-blood.

 _They make you look important_ , he thought the next instant, and shook his head in denial. _No, they make me look bigoted_ , he contradicted with irritation, pulling lightly at the neckline which was a little too tight in his opinion.

"Do refrain from damaging the robes, if you please," came a quiet voice from Harry's left, right before the Dark Lord entered the moon-shaped bathroom. He looked like he normally did, Harry thought, although his black robes had little details in silver and green, making them look expensive. "We need to head downstairs ... No, that will not do."

Before Harry could understand what Voldemort had meant, the Dark Lord stood behind his back, and in the next moment, was waving his wand over Harry's messy mop of hair. The strands started moving around on his head, folding in different directions, until the bird's nest was exchanged for a very neat-looking hairdo.

With wide eyes, Harry took in the sight of the hairstyle he had always wished he could have but had always failed to conjure. "How did you do that?" he asked with wonder, and Voldemort smiled shortly at him.

"A lesson for a later time, I am afraid. It is time to call for our guests." And with that, Voldemort turned and headed down the stairs, clearly intending for Harry to follow. With one last look in the mirror, still feeling like a total prat in his robes, Harry headed downstairs as well.

Once reaching the ground floor, Harry followed Voldemort to the Entrance Hall, where Quirrell already stood waiting for them, dressed in a purple set of dress robes, which had white frills here and there. He wore his usual turban, at least, giving Harry some sense of normalcy.

"M-M-My lord," he stuttered and fell to one knee at Voldemort's feet once he was close enough.

Ignoring his follower completely, Voldemort reached into a deep robe pocket and picked out a small, black snake with two yellow spots on the back of its head. " _Be so kind as to show our guests in_ ," he hissed at it, and it gave a slow nod before curling out of Voldemort's grip and onto the floor, where it slithered across the room and through the door, which had opened up for it seemingly on its own. Of course, now, Harry knew better.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort commanded, and at once, Quirrell flew to his feet, drew back his left sleeve and procured the underside of his arm where a red mark could be seen. Remembering that he had seen it before, during his house-tour, Harry watched with wide eyes as Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand to it, and it instantly turned yet black. Now, Harry could see that it was a skull, gaping wide as a hissing snake curled through it, forming the number eight.

After a few seconds, Voldemort retracted his wand, and Quirrell let out a relieved whimper and cradled his arm, as if he was in pain.

"Quirrell," Voldemort said quietly.

"Yes, m-m-my l-l-lord?" Quirrell stuttered in a squeaky voice.

"I will need you to stay here and take care of our guests' cloaks as they arrive. I also need you to show them into the Reception Room, where Harry and I will be waiting for them."

"Of c-c-course, my l-l-lord," said Quirrell and took a deep bow before heading to the front door, standing next to it as if he was guarding it.

With a hand laid in between his shoulder blades, Voldemort guided Harry into the Reception Room, showing him that he should stand to his right to greet the guests as they arrived. "Make sure to remember their names as I greet them," Voldemort instructed. "After they have paid their respects to me, I will introduce you as my apprentice, and you will have to greet them by name."

"All right," said Harry, feeling very nervous at the notion of being laden with such a complicated task. "What should I say, exactly?"

"'Good evening Mr and Mrs Cucumber,'" said Voldemort, smiling slightly as a startled laugh escaped Harry at the use of such a ridiculous surname. "'It is very nice to meet you.' Do you think you can manage that?"

"Yes, master."


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Seven

* * *

As they stood waiting, Harry became hyperaware of every little sound and movement around him; the insistent ticking of the grandfather clock in the West Parlour behind him; the sound of Quirrell nervously shuffling around in the Entrance Hall; the rays of the setting sun spread out over the stone floor, flickering as the last of the storm clouds moved over the darkening sky.

Looking up at Voldemort, Harry noticed he was deep in thought and didn't seem bothered at all by anxiety. He looked to be weighing something back and forth in his mind, tilting his head this way and that every so often.

Trying to mimic his calm demeanour, Harry took deep breaths and stared out through the windows in front of him, getting a view of the sparse pine forest making up most of the island. No matter the fact that Harry was about to attend a sort of get-together with people who were all _evil_ , acting as if nothing was wrong with that, he would also have to act like this wasn't the first dinner party he had ever been allowed at.

Whenever his aunt and uncle had had parties, Harry had been firmly shut into Dudley's second bedroom, where he had been told to hide and 'not exist' until the guests had left at the end of the evening. He had watched his guardians prepare for their parties – cracking odd jokes over and over, cleaning the house until it sparkled, and cooking twenty versions of the same dish – but he had never learnt what actually happened during them. Was he supposed to do anything special? Who was he supposed to speak to?

 _Just do as he says_ , came a thought, accompanied with a gust of calming feelings. _He's told you that he won't expect you to do anything you're incapable of, so don't worry about it_.

Taking comfort in that, Harry closed his eyes briefly to steel himself, and turned to Voldemort. "Are there a lot of people coming?" he asked, watching as the Dark Lord's red eyes went from clouded to knife sharp as they turned to look down at him.

"Yes," he stated simply with the hint of a smile. "We should expect two hundred and thirty six guests, although not all of them are Death Eaters. I have allowed for my followers to Side-Along their spouses if they so wish, which of course would amplify our numbers."

"That's ... a lot of people," Harry said and felt how some of the butterflies returned to his stomach. "Are we greeting them all?"

"But of course," said Voldemort with a crooked smile. "We need to be proper hosts after all ... Don't fret; you have nothing at all to fear."

"I'm not afraid," Harry muttered under his breath in defiance, feeling some of his previous valour return.

He couldn't help sending a startled look towards the Entrance Hall, however, when he heard the distinct scraping sound of the front doors sliding open, accompanied with the soft clatter of a large group of people speaking. He heard Quirrell's shrill cries of "Good evening sir," and "May I take your cloak, miss?", and then the guests started streaming into the room.

The first person he saw was a regal-looking man, looking to be about Quirrell's age, with shoulder-length brown hair and a goatee covering the skin around his mouth. Behind him came a similar-looking man, with short hair but the same kind of beard, and a very thin woman with blonde hair, tied up in a tight bun on the back of her head. They all wore rich-looking dress robes in emerald green, with black and yellow details.

With simpering smiles, the three of them curtseyed deeply in front of Voldemort (even the men, Harry noticed with confusion), before the first of the men stepped forward. "My Lord," he said in a slightly nasal voice. "It is such an honour."

"Welcome Cronus, it is good to see you again," Voldemort said with a pleasant smile, before turning to the other two. "Castor and Selena; I am pleased you all could make it. Harry," he said then, laying a soft hand on Harry's shoulder, "this is Cronus, Castor and Selena Greengrass. Messrs and Mrs Greengrass, I want to introduce my apprentice, Harry Potter."

As he spoke, several other finely clad wizards and witches had come into the room, and everyone stared openly at Harry with expressions of utter surprise. Mrs Greengrass was the first one to recover, and she made another low curtsey at Harry, tugging her husband's arm to make him follow suit. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter," she said in a soft tone, and Harry at once recalled that that was what he was supposed to say.

"Good evening, Mrs Greengrass, and Messrs Greengrass," he hurried to say. "It is a pleasure to meet you too." He wondered if he was supposed to curtsey as well, but Voldemort still held onto his shoulder, and glancing up questioningly at his master, he received a short shake of the head that told him that no, he was not supposed to.

"Please," said Voldemort with a pleasant smile, moving his hand from Harry's shoulder to gesture towards a row of tables stacked full of Champagne glasses, "make yourselves comfortable."

After the Greengrasses had thanked their host with more simpering smiles and slipped away to try the aperitifs, a tall woman, who looked to be about fifty stepped up to them and curtseyed. She wore robes in lilac, dark blue and black, and her dark-skinned hands were adorned with what seemed like a treachery of golden jewellery. "Good evening, my lord. I have awaited your return eagerly. We are truly blessed to have you back,"

"I am glad to hear it, Giselle," answered Voldemort with a small nod. "Welcome to Ravenclaw Fortress. This is my apprentice, Harry Potter. Harry, meet Giselle Zabini."

"Good evening, Mrs Zabini," said Harry, wondering if he was supposed to change his greeting around a bit every now and then, "it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Mr Potter," answered Mrs Zabini, making a small bow towards him with a glittering smile.

People started to pile up, and the clatter of small talk soon rang through both the Reception Room and the Entrance Hall, where people had gathered to wait for their turn to greet the Dark Lord.

Harry felt like the line of people had no end, and it didn't take him long to get a tense feelings in his cheeks from all the forced smiling. He met loads of middle-aged men and their wives; Devin and Gidget Rosier, Hector and Maram Avery, Archibald and Catherine Nott, and so forth. He also met men of varying ages who arrived without partners; Thorfinn Rowle, Walden Mcnair, Benedict Nott, Dismas Crouch, as well as Ormond Crabbe and Vaughn Goyle, who Harry thought with outrage looked like middle-aged carbon copies of their sons.

Then, there were a handful of women who arrived without men; Issoria Carrow, Orphne Lestrange, and Juno Mulciber, to mention a few. Next, Harry flushed furiously as he was greeted by an old, silver-haired man in pink robes, presented as Silas Selwyn, who kindly asked him if the underwear he sent suited him.

"Y-Y-Yes, that was v-very kind of you, sir," stuttered Harry, wishing he could be anywhere else. _Anywhere_. "Thank you for the gift."

"It was my pleasure," answered Mr Selwyn, winked and then disappeared into the sea of guests, headed towards the aperitifs.

Feeling outraged, Harry looked up at Voldemort, but noticed that his full attention was directed at the next guest. With a wide smile, that actually reached his red eyes, the Dark Lord exclaimed, "Abraxas! My old friend!"

"My Lord," said an old man with a cheerful expression on his slightly tanned and surprisingly youthful-looking face, contrasting sharply against the rest of his wrinkled body. He leaned heavily on a walking stick coated in shiny black lacquer, adorned with silver at the top and bottom. His dress robes were in black, silver and green, and his fine snow white hair lay flat on his head, cascading down just past his shoulders. "I do apologise if I do not bow ... old age does nothing good for stiff joints, I have learned."

Voldemort simply smiled as an answer to that. "It is good to see you," he said softly. "I fear I might have pulled you out of vacation?"

"Oh, don't worry," answered the old man regally, "my stay in Marseille has become quite permanent – once I got there, I couldn't seem to leave. Good for an old man's complexion, you see. Although, I must say, I don't think _you_ need to worry about something like that. My lord, you look just like you did forty years ago."

Voldemort chuckled lightly. "Why, Abraxas, such flatter. I used a very potent concoction, in fact, not very long ago to put some colour on my cheeks ... and some flesh on my bones," he finished while redirecting his attention to the people behind the old wizard. One of them looked just like a younger version of him, with long white blonde hair and a pointed face, and the other was a blonde woman with a very handsome face and a pair of sky blue eyes; the both of them were wearing dress robes in the same colour scheme as Abraxas.

"Ah, Lucius," said Voldemort with another genuine smile, as the couple curtseyed at him, "and you brought Narcissa, I see. Welcome, the both of you."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, my lord," answered the woman in a soft but clear voice.

"Yes, that reminds me," exclaimed the old wizard and turned to search for something supposedly behind his back. "I thought that since Lucius brought Narcissa, I might as well bring a plus one also." Harry felt his heart freeze inside his chest once he caught sight of whom Abraxas had been hiding behind his back, wondering if Voldemort would notice if he slipped away and hid. "My lord, let me introduce my grandson, Draco."

At once, Draco swooped down into a deep curtsey that, in Harry's opinion, made him look like an evil frog. Voldemort looked speechless for a moment, and the side of his face was twitching ever so slightly, but the next moment the look was gone and replaced by another smile. "What a surprise. Welcome, Draco."

"Thank you, my lord," said Malfoy in a shaky voice, arising again and looking up at Voldemort with worship in his eyes. "It is such an honour to meet –" he cut himself off mid-speech, his face went white as a sheet, and he was staring straight at Harry for a tense second, before "– _POTTER_!?"

"Oh, I'm sure Harry is just as charmed meeting you, Draco," said Voldemort, not missing a beat, and laid his right hand onto Harry's right shoulder. "Messrs and Mrs Malfoy, may I introduce Harry Potter, my apprentice. Harry, this is Abraxas, Lucius, Narcissa and young Draco Malfoy."

Harry tried, very hard to smile, but his face had moulded itself into a steely mask against his will. "Welcome Messrs and Mrs Malfoy," he managed through his stiff lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"An apprentice?" exclaimed Abraxas Malfoy with wonder, giving Voldemort a questioning look, while Lucius and Narcissa curtseyed politely at Harry behind his back. Malfoy simply stared rudely at Harry with a dumbfounded expression.

"I find myself pleased that you keep to your word, Lucius," said Voldemort with a smile Mr Malfoy's way. "I take it, this is the first you hear on Harry's current whereabouts?" demanded Voldemort then, looking right at his old friend.

"Oh, I guessed, my lord, when Mr Quirrell went for my cloak, that Mr Potter should be under your ... care. But, an apprentice, I could never guess; it is not my place to question of course –"

"That will be quite enough, Abraxas," said Voldemort in a kind, but commanding tone, and Mr Malfoy visibly backed off. "Why don't the four of you join the party while Harry and I finish up here?"

While the Malfoys made way across the room, Harry kept eye-contact with Draco, who still stared at him as if he had never seen him before. When Mrs Malfoy pinched her son's cheek, reprimanding him for staring, Harry felt a small victory in not being the first person to look away. " _What is he doing here_?" he hissed in Parseltongue, redirecting his stare to Voldemort's face.

"Good evening Peregrinus, ah, and Remigius," said Voldemort silkily, not showing any sign of having heard Harry's question, greeting two identical-looking wizards with shoulder-length hair the same colour as Ron and his family. "Let me introduce my apprentice, Harry Potter. Harry, this is Peregrinus and Remigius Prewett."

Straining his mouth into a new smile, Harry greeted the brothers, listened politely to what they had to say and watched them leave.

" _I do not know, but trust me when I say that I will find out_ ," hissed Voldemort at him out of the corner of his mouth, before turning back to the line of guests waiting. As a plump witch with curly brown hair stepped forwards, Harry clenched his teeth together and wished that he somehow could make time go faster so that this repetitive ritual could be over and done with.

Half an hour later, he got his wish, and he couldn't help but sigh in relief as Mr and Mrs Higgs joined the buzz and left him alone with Voldemort. "Are we done?" he asked in a hopeful voice, making the Dark Lord smirk down at him with humour dancing in his eyes.

"But Harry, the evening has only just begun. You cannot tell me you are tired already?" Voldemort chuckled evilly when Harry simply glowered at him. Next, he summoned one of the glasses from the aperitif-table and _clinked_ it repeatedly with the tip of his finger, which shouldn't have made such a crowd-silencing sound, but knowing of Voldemort's special gifts, Harry wasn't really all that surprised.

"Friends," Voldemort called out to the silent room, and the sea of people backed away to create a circular space for the Dark Lord to stand inside. "I thank you all for coming, and wish you welcome to Ravenclaw Fortress, our new stronghold." There was a short applause, and Voldemort smiled widely. "I would like to start this evening off with a toast, to the cause, and to the bright future we are going to build together. Cheers!" Responding calls resounded throughout the room, and as one, the guests and their host drank to the toast, looking cheerful.

"Now, since a dinner party calls for a _dinner_ , a buffet table has been set up in the Dining Hall. Quirrell will show the way," said Voldemort and gestured down the room to the door to the right, where Quirrell stood, waving awkwardly. "Feel free to dine either in the West or the East Parlour. I am sure Quirrell can help you find your way there as well. Enjoy yourselves."

After another short applause, the guests started chit-chatting again, many of them filing out of the room and into the corridor leading to the Dining Hall. "Why don't you get something to eat as well, Harry," said Voldemort once all the attention was redirected away from him once more. "I will be busy making small talk with our guests, and I suspect that such things would soon plaster a rudely bored expression onto your face."

"Probably," Harry confessed, feeling relieved that he wouldn't have to make nice with Voldemort's followers anymore.

"You did well," Voldemort praised before turning to leave. "Now get out of my sight."

With a bemused smile, feeling exhausted, Harry slipped into the corridor and headed towards the buffet dinner, feeling his stomach groan slightly at the thought of food. Before he could make it to the Dining Hall, however, he was captured by a firm grip around his arm and was hauled towards the Entrance Hall and into one of the small loos by his captor.

"Get off me, Malfoy," Harry hissed once they were both inside, and Draco had closed and locked the door behind them.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, Potter?" Malfoy hissed back at him, standing uncomfortably close in the small space. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"Sorry to disappoint you," growled Harry, taking his wand out and pointing it at Malfoy's snotty face. "And I'm fairly sure that _you're_ the one who's not supposed to be here. Master sure seemed surprised."

At once, Harry felt himself go beet red, realising that he had accidentally called Voldemort _master_ in front of bloody _Malfoy_.

"Master?" Malfoy repeated with narrowed eyes. "So it's true then – you're the Dark Lord's apprentice?"

"Get out of my way, Malfoy," Harry warned, pointing his wand right at Draco's pale throat, but he only received a disgusted sneer in response. "I mean it," he pressed furiously. "I don't have a trace anymore, so I can do magic outside of school, and I'm gonna curse you if you don't _move_."

"Bloody Potter," Malfoy hissed under his breath, looking furious. "You just get it all served on a silver platter, don't you? It's just because you're famous; you're nothing special. You're just a silly, Muggle-raised half-blood without talent. But just because of some _stupid_ strike of luck, you got famous for just _being a bloody baby_ –"

" _Petrificus Totalus_ ," Harry snarled, and at once, Malfoy's body went completely stiff, and he toppled over, his head missing the toilet seat by just an inch. Stepping over his frozen body, Harry unlocked the door and stepped out into the corridor. "Have fun at the party," he hissed viciously before slamming the door closed. " _Colloportus_ ," he then intoned, and listened with satisfaction as the lock in the door clicked. _Let him stay in there to rot_ , Harry thought to himself with glee and headed towards the Dining Hall to get his much-awaited dinner.

* * *

Harry soon found out that being the Dark Lord's apprentice, strolling along on his own at a party full of Death Eaters, was not a peaceful affair. He was constantly prodded and questioned, forced to listen to long expositions on a wide variety of subjects, many of which he understood next to nothing about. He was gushed over, his cheeks were pinched, his fixed hairdo was ruffled into a mess and he was constantly under scrutiny. Everybody seemed to want a piece of him, and it was _exhausting_.

As a last resort, he admitted defeat and escaped back to Voldemort's side, hoping to find some piece where the adults couldn't get to him without infuriating their lord.

Voldemort was conversing with an old couple Harry recognised as Mr and Mrs Shacklebolt; one of the few names he had put to memory, since it sounded very cool. Once he caught sight of his ruffled apprentice, Voldemort looked very surprised and turned away from his guests with a short excuse.

"What happened to you?" he asked with narrowed eyes after turning to face Harry fully, quickly putting two and two together before he started scanning the crowd around him with a dark glare.

"They won't leave me alone," Harry muttered quietly, staying as close to Voldemort as he could without making body contact, to create some more distance to the people around them.

With deft hands, Voldemort carded his fingers through Harry's hair, recreating some sort of order as he seemed to be deep in thought. Feeling some of the tension leave him at the gentle touch, Harry sighed and basked in the peace he had found by Voldemort's side. He could still feel many sets of eyes on him, staring like vultures waiting for the carnivore to stop feeding on him, but they didn't dare come closer at the moment.

"My lord," said a cold voice, breaking the tense silence, and Harry looked up to see Mr Malfoy, looking rather frazzled. "I am so sorry to interrupt, but it is my son. He has gone missing."

Harry tensed up, feeling Voldemort's hand still on top of his head. What was he going to do? Should he tell them?

 _Tell him in Parseltongue, so that no-one else hears_ , came a thought, and Harry thought at once that that sounded like a far better option.

" _I locked him into the loo_ ," he hissed quietly to Voldemort, feeling nervous about what he had done and wondering if he would get punished for it.

" _Why?_ " demanded Voldemort at once with deadly fury in his red glare.

" _He locked me in there with him, and he wouldn't get out of my way, and he was being really rude about it ... so I cursed him and locked him in instead ..._ "

Slowly, Voldemort turned his furious glare onto Lucius instead. "He is locked into one of the loos. Get him for me – I need to have a word with him."

Paling dramatically, Mr Malfoy stuttered his excuses and hurried to comply, emitting a chilling aura that Harry recognised from having witnessed Uncle Vernon's many rampages. Malfoy was in trouble now; both Voldemort and his father were displeased with him, a notion that brought a spiteful smile to Harry's lips.

"Is something funny?" asked Voldemort tensely, watching Harry's expression from above.

"Err, no, master," Harry said quietly. "I just _really_ don't like Malfoy, that's all."

"School your expression. You need to inspire respect for this to work," Voldemort reprimanded in a quiet voice as they both watched Mr Malfoy drag a red-faced Draco into the room. The murmur of the crowd started to quiet down, and the sea of people opened up for them, creating a corridor leading up to the Dark Lord, who stood waiting for them with a cold expression.

"Draco Malfoy," Voldemort called loudly, effectively making the entire room fall silent, as well as attracting the attention of some curious people in the room next door, who slipped into the room to watch. "Can you explain to me what possessed you to attack my apprentice?"

Malfoy stood in front of the Dark Lord, with his stern-looking father standing behind him, visibly shivering in fear. "My lord, I'm sorry," he managed in a wheeze, looking so scared he might faint.

"Did it not occur to you that Lord Voldemort's apprentice is far above yourself in hierarchy?" Voldemort pressed, stalking closer to the terrified teenager. All around him, the vultures started to squirm, casting fearful looks at Harry, who did his best to mimic Voldemort's usual expression of pure stoicism.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Draco exclaimed and fell to his knees in submission, sniffling and hiccupping pitifully. "I did wrong."

"Yes, Draco, you did," answered Voldemort delicately, coming to a stop in front of his hunched form. "But you are a minor, and as such are not fully responsible for your actions. I rather lay the blame on your guardians, for neglecting to educate you better," he finished, staring straight at Lucius, who flushed in shame.

"I beg your forgiveness, my lord," Mr Malfoy said softly, falling to his knees as well.

"Let it be known," Voldemort called out, so that his voice rang trough the entire room, and out through the open doors, "for those who have not yet understood the implications of what being Lord Voldemort's apprentice entails, that Harry Potter is second to me in rank, and that he bow down to me and me alone. Will anyone try to disgrace him again, be assured that that person will be punished, like traitors were in the old days."

Most of the guests seemed to understand what that cryptic explanation meant, since they nodded sombrely, some of them paling dramatically before visibly shrinking back into the background. A few of the younger guests didn't react as strongly, but they seemed to understand the implications anyway.

"Arise," said Voldemort after an ominous moment of silence, and watched as Draco and Mr Malfoy got back onto their feet, bowed and slipped back into the sea of people, that closed around them while creating a circle of empty space for the Dark Lord to stand inside. Harry, on the other hand, was still standing by one of the windows in the middle of the room, as walls of people closed around him; but in contrast to his previous experience of being surrounded by Voldemort's followers, they stayed at a respectful distance from him now, so that he had a small circle of his own to move around inside if he so wished.

"Friends," Voldemort called out in a light-hearted tone of voice, "I hope that you have had a good time, and that the food proved satisfactory." The abrupt change of subject was welcomed, judging by the concurring murmur of the crowd, and ever so slowly, the mood changed. "The night is closing in, and it has become high time to end the soirée, and to initiate the mission."

The crowd broke out in applause and cheers, and people streamed through the doors to take part in whatever was to come. The word _mission_ sounded ominous to Harry, and he worried what Voldemort could be meaning by it.

"Friends, it has been far too long since someone stepped up to fight for the cause; to fight for the wizarding world. What has happened since last we saw each other? The outlawing of certain branches of magic that the Ministry deems too dangerous; the imprisonment of witches and wizards who tries to better this world, to make a change and rise above what we are; the involvement of Muggles in our wizarding society, who infiltrate and seeks to usurp our world and make it their own."

The roar of the crowd rose as the Dark Lord spoke, and their displeasure was apparent. "It is high time we act; it is high time we step up and take responsibility for this world, and for the wizarding kind. Friends, tonight is the night for the uprising of the Death Eaters."

A raging applause broke out all around the room, and people were cheering like mad, some of them looking insane with glee and happiness. In the middle stood Voldemort, grinning wickedly, waiting for the crowd to quiet down; Harry thought he had never seen him look so genuinely happy before, and kept worrying about what was going to happen. They weren't about to go out and kill people, were they?

After a long moment of cheering, the crowd quieted down again, and Voldemort looked to be about to speak when the sound of the front doors slipping open could be heard, and all eyes turned to the Entrance Hall to see what was going on as voices could be heard.

"Who are you?" exclaimed Quirrell from the other room. "You cannot just barge in here! Stop!"

But whoever was out there didn't seem to listen, and as the sea of people opened up around him, creating a new corridor with Voldemort in one end and the intruder in the next, Harry saw that it was a very plump, flea-bitten little man with a scrunched up face and a pair of watery eyes who stood there, looking at the Dark Lord with adoration.

"My lord," he exclaimed in a squeaky voice, which had a strange sniffling quality to it, and stumbled forwards. There was something about him that made Harry's skin prickle uncomfortably, and judging by the looks on the faces around him, he wasn't the only one who had that reaction to him. "At last, my lord," the little man exclaimed tearfully and fell to his knees in front of Voldemort, kissing the hem of his robes. "I found you. You're back! My lord, you're back!"

With a nasty sneer of disgust, Voldemort pointed his wand straight at the intruder, while simultaneously raising his left hand, claw-like, towards the ceiling, making the little ratty man rise off the ground and hover mid-air above their heads. The little man squealed in a high-pitched tone that had the people around him cover their ears with disgusted expressions.

"Good evening, Wormtail," said Voldemort in a voice that promised death. "I do not recall sending you an invitation."

"My mark, my lord!" Wormtail squeaked. "It burned! It called me here!"

"And you thought you would just show up here?" questioned Voldemort with a glower.

"Yes!" exclaimed Wormtail. "I did everything I could ... it was difficult ... I had to steal a wand ... I had to transform to get through the wards, but I followed the snake once I saw it ... and I found you, my lord!"

" _Crucio_!" Voldemort bit out with burning eyes, and Wormtail screeched and thrashed violently in the air. It all was so gruesome that Harry had to look away, feeling a bit ill. When the man's screams stopped, Voldemort spoke again. "You filthy, traitorous little _rat_. Were you followed? Did anyone see you?"

"No! No my lord!" Wormtail shouted desperately, sniffling and crying. "I swear, I am a faithful, good servant. I hide – I always hide, and they never find me, my lord. I swear!"

Voldemort said noting, but only stared into Wormtail's watery eyes with a focused expression, and for some reason, that seemed to be excruciatingly painful for the little man, who howled and thrashed in the air again while fat tears streamed out of his wide, unblinking eyes.

"Very well, Wormtail," said Voldemort suddenly, turning away from the man, who fell painfully back onto the floor with a _thump_ , where he lay still, shivering and sobbing. Coming back to his original position in the middle of the room, Voldemort turned back around and studied the trembling man for a moment.

"You are in luck," Voldemort continued then with a dangerous smirk at his victim, who looked up at him with fearful eyes. "It just so happens that an opportunity for you to prove yourself to me has opened up for you. The only thing you have to do is to volunteer to be the first one in line. Will you?"

"Yes!" squeaked Wormtail, struggling back onto his feet with a hopeful expression. "Anything, my lord! I will do anything!"

Dismissing Wormtail completely, Voldemort turned his back on him to look out over the sea of guests, who actually _had_ been invited. "Who else will volunteer?"

In quick succession, hands were raised, and several clear voices called out "I will!" as the speakers stepped forwards. Voldemort started calling out names, gathering his chosen ones on the right side of the room, where Wormtail stood shivering in a corner. Once the Dark Lord seemed pleased with his selection, he stopped scanning the crowd and instead turned to the group of chosen volunteers.

"Very good – 47 Death Eaters, prepared to make a stand and change this world for the better – it is a welcoming sight. Ready yourselves, garb yourselves in black, drink the Sobering Potions provided for you in the Entrance Hall," Voldemort commanded and smiled widely. "Tonight, we take Azkaban!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Eight

* * *

Harry watched worriedly as the Death Eaters followed Voldemort's orders, having recognised the word Azkaban, but still not knowing at all what it was. Looking for the Dark Lord, Harry saw that he had summoned a small group of witches and wizards, who he seemed to be instructing to do something, gesturing towards the staircases out in the Entrance Hall. They all nodded once he had finished, and scurried out of the room towards the upper levels of the fortress, while Voldemort turned around and scanned the Reception Room for something. Once his eyes caught sight of Harry, he stopped searching and instead beckoned for him with a hand gesture.

As Harry started moving across the room, the sea of people parted to create a slim corridor for him to walk through; none of them moving closer to him than an arm's length. Some of them even bowed slightly at the waist in his direction, and most were watching him with rapt attention, making him feel extremely self-conscious.

Once arriving at his destination, Voldemort lay his right hand between Harry's shoulder blades and guided him into the Entrance Hall and through the front gates, which had opened up for them as they approached. After their exit, the doors fell shut behind them with a scraping sound, creating a barrier between them and the rest of the guests. Breathing in the cool night air, looking up at the sky, where the stars were twinkling down at them, surrounding a crescent moon, Harry felt himself relax at last. Who knew parties could be so exhausting?

Looking away from the sky and back at Voldemort, Harry saw that he stood with his wand stretched out in a commanding gesture, looking out at the dark island towards the shore, where a stone pier Harry hadn't seen before stretched out into the water. Furrowing his brows, wondering where it had come from, Harry tried to see what the Dark Lord was looking at, but didn't see anything at first. Then, a small something appeared along the road, zooming towards them at a low speed. Harry couldn't spot what it was until it came into the light radiating out of the fortress' tall windows, and only once it had reached Voldemort's left hand, which he had stretched out in order to catch it, did he recognise it as the small snake that had been sent away to "show the guests in" earlier that evening.

Voldemort studied it absentmindedly for a moment, before turning to Harry and holding it out towards him. "I need you to bring Shamira back to my office," he explained as Harry accepted the snake, holding it with two hands as it studied him with rapt attention, smelling him with its flickering tongue. "In the cabinet closest to my desk," Voldemort continued, "you will find a glass tank to put her in. After that, I need you to stay in the tower for the rest of the evening. I might have dissuaded most of my followers from making contact with you, but I fear some might take advantage of my preoccupation, and since you are not yet powerful enough to keep them out of your mind, I feel it is necessary to keep you out of their reach. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master," Harry said, not being upset in the least about being sent away from the guests – rather, he was relieved that he wouldn't have to associate with them after Voldemort left. So instead of objecting, he eyed the snake, which had apparently deemed him a completely unthreatening warmth-source, and had curled up into a tight bundle in his cupped hands. "Why did you need to send Shamira to let the guests in? Couldn't they just get here themselves?"

"Fidelius Charm," Voldemort offered absentmindedly, staring out at the dark pine forest with distant eyes. "The only way to access the island is to be shown in by the Secret Keeper."

"What's a Secret Keeper?" Harry wondered, holding the snake up to study her more closely. She was not at all as black in colour as he had originally thought, but had yellow stripes under her chin, leading town to the sides of her neck, where she had two yellow spots. Her belly was also in a pale, yellow colour, and on her back were little dark dots which only were visible in very close proximity. As he looked, he was starting to feel a bit worried that she was suddenly going to attack him with poisonous fangs. "Is she dangerous?" he asked suddenly, accidentally interrupting Voldemort as he was about to answer the first question. "I'm sorry, master," Harry hurried to say as he received a dark, disapproving glare.

"If you ask a question, pay close attention to the person whom you asked. Anything else is unacceptably rude," Voldemort chided him in a cold voice.

"Yes, master. I'm sorry," Harry said and made sure to keep his eyes firmly locked on the Dark Lord.

"Shamira is a grass-snake," Voldemort stated after a short moment of reprimanding silence, "and is thus completely harmless and completely inconspicuous. A Secret Keeper is the only one who can reveal what is being concealed by the Fidelius Charm, since he or she keeps the secret within the soul. In this case, Shamira had to lead the guests to the Island in order for them to find it, since the location itself is the secret. While the Fidelius Charm is intact, no-one except the Secret Keeper can reveal the secret to other people, and thus our location will remain secure no matter how many visitors we allow access.

"Now," Voldemort stated in a commanding voice, "I need you to do as told and return to our quarters. Do not stay up late, because I will require your assistance early tomorrow morning."

"Yes, master," Harry said quietly, and hesitated on whether to say anything in parting or not, before settling on a simple, "good night," before slipping through one of the front doors and hurrying through the corridor towards the nook where the entrance to the West Tower was concealed. Before he could reach the curtains, though, he was interrupted by an agitated whisper behind his back.

"Hold up, Potter!"

Flipping around, Harry saw that Malfoy had stalked him into the nook and was currently closing the door behind them in an extremely slow fashion, as if he was trying to be as quiet as possible.

"What now, Malfoy?" Harry questioned in a tired voice while Shamira lifted her head to study the newcomer, evaluating if he posed a threat to her or not, judging by her body language. "One curse wasn't enough for you?"

"Stop being such a hot-headed _Weasley_ ," Malfoy hissed viciously at him, turning around to face him with a ruffled expression, which was exchanged for stark incomprehension once he caught sight of Shamira, who hissed threateningly at him from her curled-up position. "A _snake_?" Malfoy exclaimed in an undignified squeak that made Harry chuckle with malice.

"Scared, Malfoy?" he asked silkily, which made the other boy pierce him with a deadly glare and straighten up with his pointed nose high in the air.

"Hardly, Potter. It's just a grass-snake; they're not poisonous."

 _Trust a Slytherin to have expert knowledge on snakes_ , Harry thought to himself with slight disappointment. "I bet a bite would hurt anyway," he mused, smiling as Malfoy's self-assured expression faltered a little.

"It won't bite; that measly snake will just slither off and hide," Malfoy said with a sneer Shamira's way before flicking his silvery eyes back to Harry. "You better start explaining yourself, Potter," he demanded with a strange gleam in his eyes. "Why are you here, and why do you have the Dark Lord's favour?" he continued, sauntering closer with a searching look on his face, moving in a way that reminded Harry of how Dudley's crony Piers used to stalk around his victims before striking at them. "How did you _do_ it?"

Malfoy took another small step towards him, which was his mistake, really, because in the next instant, Shamira lashed out at him. With a yelp, Malfoy jumped back, staring with wide eyes at the now furiously hissing snake. "Careful," said Harry in a gleeful tone, "I don't think she likes you very much."

Malfoy looked uncertain now, as if he was trying to decide whether to abandon his quest or to press further. One of his hands lay on the door handle, ready to escape; the other was stuck into his pocket, ready to pull out his wand and strike. His silvery eyes were stubbornly staring straight at Harry's face.

"Besides," Harry continued when Malfoy didn't make a move, "you should show me some respect, Malfoy; me being your superior and all. You don't need the snake to know that." He couldn't help but grin at the dumbfounded expression on the Slytherin bully's face. _Not so tough now, are you_ , he thought gleefully.

"How is it that you always land on your feet?" Malfoy hissed between clenched teeth at last, apparently deciding to risk his neck after all. "How is it _possible_ that you could make ... make the Dark Lord change his mind about you? Merlin, you should be _dead_. Everyone thinks you're dead!"

Harry studied his most hated classmate warily, wondering why he sounded so ... _worried_. It was strange; Malfoy didn't _worry_ about him. Why would he? "I guess you must be _very_ disappointed," Harry muttered with a suspicious glare, watching as Malfoy's expression grew rigid at his comment. He had never seen his classmate this unhinged before, and quite frankly, it was pretty disconcerting to watch the normally drawling and mocking boy unravel like this; losing his composure.

"Disappointed," Malfoy breathed out with a furious expression. "What do you _take me for_ , Potter? I never wanted you to _die_! Do you really think so lowly of me?"

"Yes," Harry answered, without hesitation. Why wouldn't Malfoy have wanted him dead? Harry's relatives had oftentimes proclaimed their wish for his demise, and as far as Harry was concerned, during his past year at Hogwarts, Malfoy had been acting even meaner to him that Dudley had ever been.

For some reason, his quick answer seemed to have stunned Malfoy into silence, a pink tint on his cheeks indicating that he was embarrassed. "Well, you're wrong, Potter," he managed finally, visibly reeling back into his shell as the normal sneer plastered itself back onto his pointed face, while his previously swirling grey eyes turned ice cold, regarding Harry with suspicion. And then, he slipped out the door and was gone.

Feeling shaken, and immensely tired from the night's events, Harry made it up the staircases and into Voldemort's office, heading straight for the cabinet where Shamira's supposed tank should be. After he had opened up the glassed doors, he got a whiff of a sickly sweet smell, which seemed to come from an odd-looking lump of scorched meat, lying on a silver tray next to jars and flasks of other more or less fright-inspiring potions ingredients. On the shelf above it stood a stack of very old-looking books, without titles or author names on their spines, and next to them, working as a bookend, was the rumoured snake tank. It was set entirely in glass, except for the lid on top of it that was wooden with little glowing lights attached to it, which lit the box up softly. The tank was fairly long, although not very wide, and its bottom was covered in bark and moss with a round stone in the middle.

Carefully, Harry took a firmer grip of the snake with his right hand, slipped the lid to the side with his left, and directed Shamira towards the opening, which she eagerly slipped through head-first. Once her entire bulk was in the box, Harry reset the lid into its previous position, and watched as the snake curled up on the stone and let out a pleased hiss, watching him lazily through the glass. "Thanks for the ride," she hissed in a muffled voice, before turning her head away – signalling through body language that she was going to sleep.

Smiling softly, enjoying the fact that he had finally found solitude, Harry closed the cabinet and looked around the office with curiosity. _Perhaps I should take a look around_ , he thought with excitement. _Who knows when I'll be left alone in here next?_

* * *

Voldemort looked out at the group of witches and wizards in front of him, standing in neat rows, now clad in black with focused expressions. He smiled at them, content to have some semblance of normalcy back in his life – and some excitement. _Finally_ things had started moving in the right direction.

"Azkaban currently holds 47 prisoners in total," he introduced firmly. "They are placed in individual cells on three different levels. They are guarded by over 500 Dementors, as well as 25 Ministry employed prison guards. These guards, you do not need to concern yourselves with. We have the Dementors' alliance, and they will handle the situation by committing mutiny in exchange for their freedom. You will be summoned after the Dementors have done their part of the deal, and right before I do mine. Your mission will be to break into the prison and abduct one prisoner each. After that, you shall return to Ravenclaw Cliff by Apparating to the edge of the pier, and there, I need you all to wait for my return."

After falling silent, Voldemort took a moment to let his eyes roam over the crowd, looking for appropriate leaders for this certain mission. His eyes first fell on Lucius Malfoy, but he soon thought better of it, and looked away. Malfoy was certainly a level-headed man with quick wit and a sharp mind – but he needed these particular leaders to have more muscle than mind; to follow orders rather than think independently. His eyes skimmed past Giselle Zabini and Isodorus Yaxley for the same reason, coming to a halt at the stout form of Ormond Crabbe, standing next to his constant companion, Vaughn Goyle. Excellent at taking orders, at making sure that everyone else involved followed them as well, and overall, very loyal followers of his.

"Crabbe, Goyle," he called out, beckoning for them to come closer with a short wave of his hand. As the two thick-set men made their way towards him, Voldemort's eyes fell on a purple turban, poking up in the last line of followers, and a thought struck him. If Quirrell was to lead an army of trolls, surely he would have to prove himself before that – not only to his lord, but to the other Death Eaters as well?

"Quirrell," he therefore called out, earning the rapt attention of a pair of startled-looking brown eyes. "You too," he clarified and made another beckoning hand-movement, watching impassively as the slightly shivering man came closer and placed himself next to Crabbe and Goyle, who stood ready in front of their lord, awaiting instructions with eager faces.

"The three of you will be in charge of one level of the prison each, making sure that all prisoners are freed before leaving. You are also in charge of making sure none of your comrades are injured during the mission, and to act in case something unpredictable should happen."

He lifted his gaze to the rest of his followers. "Is anything unclear?" When he was only met by silence, he grinned cruelly. "Then await your summons. Wormtail," he said then, turning to face the crumpled little man in the front row, who looked up at him with adoration. "Since you were the first to volunteer, you shall have the honour of accompanying Lord Voldemort while the others wait." With great disgust at the man's instant whimpers of glee and gratitude, Voldemort grabbed him by the arm and promptly Apparated to Azkaban Island, thinking to himself that at least now, he could keep an eye on the treacherous little rat and see for himself where his loyalty lay.

The mystery of the Dark Mark's malfunction, summoning Wormtail when it shouldn't have, still nagged at him from the back of his mind. Something was obviously wrong with the mark, which was a very worrying thought, since a large part of this mission was reliant on the marks working properly, lest he summon some of his other Death Eaters by mistake, which would be a nightmare to have to deal with.

Pushing the thoughts away as they appeared on the edge of a cliff, set in the dark, wet stone of Azkaban Island, Voldemort stepped forwards, dropping Wormtail's arm as if scalded, and let his eyes trace the domed wards surrounding the island. They would take a lot of power to dismantle – not a problem, of course, but still a hassle.

Not wasting any time, he took out his wand and started layering a domed Anti-Apparition ward on top of the other wards, just to make sure no-one Disapparated and alerted the Ministry before all prisoners could be extracted from their cells. In the middle of his chant, a dark shape started drifting towards him, emerging from the shaded crowd of Dementors, standing out from the rest because of the crude crown sticking up out of the top of its hood.

After finishing his incantation, and watching as the magic travelled across the dark night sky, Voldemort turned to the Dementor King, and greeted it mentally.

" _Good evening, King Avtandil,_ " he greeted, covering his mouth with his left hand in a respectful gesture, holding out his wand to the side to show that he was not going to attack.

" _I welcome you to my home, Lord Voldemort,_ " the Dementor King answered, making a short bow at him in an effort to show respect as well. " _And your servant is welcomed as well._ "

Ignoring the mention of Wormtail, who stood shivering behind his lord like the coward he was, Voldemort went straight to business. " _I am ready to initiate the coup. I will await your part of the deal, before sending my troops in, while I take down the wards and set you and your kin free._ "

" _So be it_ ," King Avtandil concluded with another short bow, before turning around to face the myriad of black-clad creatures and uttering a horrible screech that rang all over the island, signalling for all Dementors to strike.

All over the island, the confused faces of witches and wizards, clad in white and gold with Ministry Emblems on their chests, appeared, searching the area for the reason behind the ruckus. One by one, the Dementors turned on the guards, surrounding them, swooping down to strike with the Kiss. Some guards went down pathetically easy, caught completely off guard; others put up a decent fight. Voldemort watched with great contentment as twenty of them succumbed, one by one. Five seemed to hold their own against the Dementors, managing to produce Patronuses to keep them at bay.

One plump wizard, with a yapping terrier as guardian, twisted and turned around frantically to put off the surrounding Dementors. Soon, however, their oppressive aura broke his spirit, and the Patronus flickered and disappeared, right before the wizard was engulfed by one of the tallest of the Dark creatures, plastering its scabby grey hands to his plush face before indulging in his mouth.

Next, two witches who fought back to back, letting their identical fish Patronuses circle around them, lost spirit as the Dementors who had previously surrounded the plump wizard zoomed in on them. After that, only three guards remained; the first two of which easily went down right after the two witches. Last man standing was a tall, respect-inspiring witch with dark skin and bright eyes, who fought well with the help of a proud lion Patronus. She seemed about to go down, however, Voldemort noted with some interest, watching as the Dementors came closer and closer to her. Once or twice, it seemed like all was over, but then, unexpectedly, she straightened up again and threw a couple of Blasting Curses, while still maintaining her Patronus Charm; a highly impressive feat, which suggested that she could use some of her natural magic to maintain a spell while simultaneously casting another with her wand.

Now intrigued, Voldemort reached out to the Dementor King mentally, and asked for him to cease the attack. The Dementors backed off as the woman stood panting, visibly exhausted from the physical strain on her muscles, caused by the excessive Mana use. She looked highly confused when the Dark creatures backed off, and held her wand high in preparation for what was to come, whipping around as she sensed Voldemort's approach from behind her back.

With a lazy hand-movement, he disarmed her, putting her wand into his left robe pocket for safekeeping while maintaining eye contact with the oh-so defiant-looking witch.

"Well fought," he praised, smiling wickedly as he sensed her intense fear. "I cannot help but find myself intrigued – what is your name?"

"Odelia Thorn," she snarled in a deep voice, shooting daggers at him with her expressive green eyes. "And it's _you_ who's behind all this, is it? Who are you?"

"Lord Voldemort," he responded, watching with glee how Thorn's expression slackened in disbelief and stark fear. "Sadly, I find myself in a bit of a rush," he continued mockingly, stepping closer to Thorn's rigid form, "but rest assured that we will indulge in a nice and long _chat_ at the first opportune moment."

Then, he put her under the Imperius Curse, forcing her to impassively stick to his side as he pushed on with the mission. She struggled, of course, so it took a lot of Mana to keep her under his thrall, but he managed it without difficulty, naturally.

Once he had her under control, Voldemort flicked his wand in dismissing gestures, efficiently dismantling his Anti-Apparition Ward. Next, he turned to Wormtail, who was still taking cover behind his lord's back, casting fearful glances from side to side, as if searching for the best escape-rout. "Hold out your arm," Voldemort instructed coldly, waiting impatiently as his follower stuttered an affirmative and pushed up the left sleeve of his robes, revealing his red mark. Taking the appendage in a gruel grip that made Wormtail whimper, Voldemort pushed the tip of his wand to the mark and focused hard on the select Death Eaters he wanted to summon, watching impassively as the mark darkened into a deep black on Wormtail's sickly pale skin, furiously hoping nothing would go wrong this time.

Suddenly, Death Eaters started to appear with more of less pronounced _cracks_ , gathering around him in a circle until all 46 of them had arrived; thankfully, the right ones. Then, Voldemort nodded sharply to Crabbe, Goyle and Quirrell, signalling that they should initiate their part of the mission. The three of them caught on, and immediately, Goyle shouted for the others to follow his lead into the prison building, before charging in that direction, carefully avoiding to bump into the empty-eyed guards that littered the ground around the entrance as he went.

Soon, Voldemort's followers had disappeared into the tick darkness of the prison, leaving him alone with the Dementors, Thorne, and to his annoyance, Wormtail. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded short-temperedly, which made the ratty little man spring into action and scurry after the other Death Eaters, suddenly very eager to prove himself.

Once he was gone, Voldemort turned around to face the Dementor King, who stood in front of his subjects, radiating impatience and insecurity, no doubt fearing that he had, once again, been tricked into continued slavery by wizards.

" _Do not fear, your highness_ ," Voldemort assured him mentally, covering his mouth with his hand again. " _Lord Voldemort always rewards loyalty and efficiency. You will all be free within the hour_."

The Dementor King made a short bow to him, visibly relaxing, although he still watched Voldemort closely for any sign of insincerity. No doubt, he was prepared to lash out with his immense mental powers at any sign that Voldemort would neglect to complete his part of the deal.

Dementors truly were powerful creatures, but even more so than what was common knowledge. What people usually did not learn about them was that they had their own form of magic – powerful mental capabilities that allowed them to swoop down on their victims, creating nightmares, phobias, visions and madness that drove them to the brink of committing suicide, which was when the Dementors swooped in to deliver the Kiss and claim their victims' deliciously spiritless souls. They could also create mirages of their own form, which could travel everywhere to draw someone into their webs, connecting their victims' minds to their own. These shapes were fairly harmless, and could only create a dark atmosphere that inspired sadness and fear in the people subjects to the Dementor. This shape was all that these Dementors had left, since they physically could not leave Azkaban Island because of the Ministry's ward around the island – the ward that Voldemort would now dismantle. After this night, the Dementors would be free to roam the lands, picking and choosing between victims, most likely Muggle, since they had no way of fighting back against the Dark creatures.

Smirking at the thought of the stark chaos the Dementors would create for the Ministry of Magic, Voldemort set to work. He pointed his wand towards the sky, feeling for magic with his left hand, and started chanting.

* * *

The Dark Lord's office was stacked to the rim with interesting stuff, Harry had learnt during his momentarily free reign of it. Inside of the three glass cabinets, he had found loads of strange crystals; vials stuffed with odd stuff of varying texture; a stack of white chocolate bars, which he had snatched a small chunk from, too tempted by the sweet smell to resist; a Remembrall lying on top of a plush satin pillow with golden tassels at the edges of its red bulk; wooden jars filled with some pale, shiny sort of goo that smelled like sap; heavy leather tomes that hissed viciously at him whenever he tried to pick one out to read; more scorched meat chunks that smelled funny; stacks upon stacks of paper-thin snake skin in varying colours and so forth.

The Dark Lord's desk drawers were locked shut, and impossible to open with the Unlocking Charm. Harry had tried to hiss for them to open in Parseltongue, just in case Voldemort had locked them with a sort of password, but to no effect. On top of the desk lay stacks of parchments, scrolls and letters – all of which were protected by some invisible force that made it impossible for Harry to lay his hands on them. There was an elegant-looking black quill, lying next to a nicely ornamented silver inkwell, as well as a set of silver scales.

On the coffee tables by the sofa group lay stacks upon stacks of books, which in fact did not abuse Harry when he tried to pick them up. The first one he looked at, lying on top of one of the stacks, was about something called Dementors, which sounded more and more horrifying the more Harry read about them. Next were three books on Basilisks, and at the bottom of the stack was a thick tome about something labelled Soul Magic.

The stack next to it contained books on the Dark Arts, in varying sizes and colours – all of them looking very old and worn, but at the same time, well-preserved. Feeling slightly dispirited after leafing through their contents, Harry left the remaining stacks of books alone and instead walked over to the middle of the room, where a square table on top of a circular mat stood, upon which a map of Great Britain lay, weighed down by black and white chessmen – or what looked like it anyway. They were placed out on different locations, probably indicating the position of Voldemort's troops and enemies, or something of the like.

One black chess piece was placed in the middle of the North Sea, standing in height with Aberdeen, and Harry wondered to himself if that could be where this island was located. _Most likely,_ he thought, nodding to himself, _it's very close to Azkaban, so it would make sense._

Freezing up, Harry swallowed thickly with a strange feeling churning in his guts. How had he known that? He didn't even know what Azkaban _was_ , let alone where it was located.

 _The wizarding prison_ , came a thought unbidden, startling him badly. _Don't be scared_ , came another thought, doing absolutely nothing to calm him down, _I'm not an intruder – I'm simply a part of your soul. Remember what Voldemort said? When he attacked you, a part of your soul split and latched onto his – I'm that piece. I'm part of you. Why are you frightened? I have been speaking to you for days now._

Harry felt faint, and he stumbled back, reaching blindly for something to hold onto before falling headlong into one of the couches, hearing his furious heartbeat slam harshly against his eardrums.

 _Breathe_ , the voice urged with a slightly panicked voice, _calm down. You're not in danger._

Harry felt sick, dizzy and exposed. His breathing came out in light pants that made his head spin, and before he knew it, he tilted to the side and puked all over the floor.

* * *

Voldemort threw his head back and cackled gleefully as he tugged one last time and the heavy wards came apart, ripped clean through like fabric, leaving his fingertips sizzling with power, making him feel giddy. At once, the Dementors scattered, tasting freedom and claiming it thoughtlessly, swooping through the air like dark shadows. King Avtandil paused in front of him, stretching out his skeletal hand for Voldemort to shake. Breathlessly, he shook it, and then watched as the king drifted off, leading his kin to a new place, where he could rebuild his lost empire, far away from greedy wizarding hands.

Still grinning widely, Voldemort turned to Thorn, who watched him with frustrated eyes, and took hold of her left arm. Next, he Apparated, letting her Side-Along, and appeared at the stone pier he had erected in preparation for the night's events. It was littered with people, who all looked up at him when he arrived. Not minding his audience, Voldemort dropped the Imperius Curse and watched as Thorn quickly moved back from him, before abruptly stunning her with an off-handed gesture.

"Keep an eye on her," he informed the person to his left, who turned out to be a stone-faced Ormond Crabbe. "I will return shortly," Voldemort finished before Apparating into his office, making a short stop there to pick up his Secret Keeper.

Once he arrived, the sight that greeted him promptly stopped him in his tracks. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded, swooping down on Potter's huddled form, lying half-way out of the couch with his head bent slackly over a putrid splatter of sick. Vanishing it with a quick, dismissing gesture, Voldemort bend down over the boy and grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him into a sitting position. When his face was revealed, Voldemort realised the boy had fainted, and he was horribly pale.

Quickly, Voldemort pulled out his wand and cast a firm Reviving Spell on the boy, watching as the green eyes snapped open, instantly filling up with fear. "No, no, no, no, no –" the boy groaned, clutching his sweaty head desperately, shivering, staring at nothing while his breathing sped up significantly. Recognising the signs of a panic attack, Voldemort summoned a vial of Calming Draught out of the rightmost of his cabinets, and deftly undid the stopper before emptying it in Harry's mouth, which opened easily for him as he pried it open.

Ever so slowly, the boy calmed down, adopting an almost dreamy expression as the potion worked its magic. He still seemed frightened, though, and his eyes were beginning to fill up with tears. "What's wrong?" Voldemort asked quietly, forcing his voice to sound kind, even though he wanted to throttle the boy for seemingly putting he precious soul shard in danger.

"There's something in my head," Harry whispered in a haunted voice, looking up at him over the rim of his circular lenses. "I hear voices ... I must be going mad."

Voldemort let out a deep breath once he realised what the boy was speaking of, and felt himself relax with the realisation that his Horcrux was not in mortal peril. _So the boy's soul shard has been making contact, has it_ , Voldemort thought to himself, _that must mean that I am finally back at full strength._

Realising that he had no time to spare for this particular conversation, Voldemort smiled softly at his charge and put the tip of his wand to his head. He gently put Harry to sleep, catching the boy as he fell to the side, Apparating with him into the boy's bedchamber, putting him under the covers. Next, he laid his hand on top of the boy's head, closing his eyes while tracing his wand up and down the boy's scalp.

Slowly, he erected mental shields over Harry's mind, making sure that the soul shard could make no contact with him until Voldemort found the time to have a little conversation with him. Once he was done, he Apparated back to the office and picked out Shamira from her tank, putting her into his right robe pocked before travelling back to the pier, where his followers and prisoners were waiting for his return.

Pushing all thoughts of Harry away, he scanned the crowd with sharp eyes. "Line up," he instructed, watching as his followers shuffled to comply, leading or manhandling their prisoners, depending of what pair he was looking at. The first one in line turned out to be the one whose return he had anticipated most eagerly; Bellatrix Lestrange. "Bella," he said softly, watching her heavy-lidded eyes as they dreamily turned onto him, and a wide smile slowly spread onto her gaunt face.

"My lord," she purred, sounding slightly intoxicated, "you look stunning."

"Thank you," said Voldemort quietly, eyeing her carefully. It was a shame, having to watch how far she had fallen. She was now only a shell of the Dark beauty she had once been, holding a sharp mind and immense power; enough to almost rival his own. But now, she looked broken, and Voldemort feared that she would never be the same again.

"Lucius," he said, turning to Bellatrix's guard, "lead her inside. Make sure she gets her own room. Follow the snake."

Then, he let Shamira out of his pocket, asking her to show the guests in again, before putting her down onto the rocks. At once, she started to slither away, and Lucius took a firmer hold of Bellatrix before following her, moving ever so slowly towards the fortress.

After Bellatrix followed a steady stream of Death Eaters; Fenrir Greyback, Amycus and Alecto Carrow, Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, and so forth. All of them looked gaunt and broken, some of them giggling hysterically, others just staring off into nothing. It would take a lot of work to get the lot of them back to health, both mentally and physically, thought Voldemort with impatience. This would cost them a lot of time, but there was no way he was going to send them straight into war in this state; the consequences would be devastating.

In between loyal followers were prisoners Voldemort had no previous association with – some of them sane enough to declare their name and blood status to him; others so far gone he couldn't get anything constructive out of them at all. The ones who were sane enough to speak, and who were either half-bloods or pure-bloods, were sent into the fortress to be cared for; the others were bundled together at the edge of the pier to await their fates. Thorn, who was quite the special case, was sent up to the fortress as well, struggling furiously in Crabbe's hold all the way up the road.

Going through each and every one of the prisoners, Voldemort finally ended up at the last one, held in a firm hold by Quirrell, who had his wand pointed straight at his head. The man had lanky black hair that hung in a ruffled mess over his back, covering his hunched face from view. He was extremely skinny, and his pale skin had a sickly sheen to it, implying that this was a prisoner who got no visitors and no care from any loved ones.

"H-H-He t-t-turned into a d-d-dog ... and n-n-nearly esc-c-c-c-caped, my l-lord" Quirrell explained at his inquisitive stare.

"Name," Voldemort demanded shortly, turning back to look at the man and waited for him to speak. When he didn't, Voldemort snatched hold of the back of the man's ruffled head and pulled it back by the hairs. Ice cold, grey eyes met him with a startling level of defiance. To Voldemort's great surprise, this man seemed completely sane. _How was it possible_? "Name," he repeated, watching as the heavily bearded man sneered at him, obviously not intending at all to speak.

Sighing in annoyance, Voldemort took out his wand and forcefully entered the man's mind, quickly sorting through the memories with no care for the level of pain he caused. _Sirius Black_ , he found out with intrigue, _the last heir to the Black fortune. An Animagus ... kept his sanity by transforming into a dog. Fascinating. Was starving himself to get thin enough to slip through the bars ... nearly there._

Exiting Black's mind, Voldemort smirked with delight, new plans starting to spin in his head for what to do with this certain, rebellious man. "Kindly take Mr Black to a private room," he instructed Quirrell, stubbornly keeping eye contact with Black's defiant grey gaze. "And do put him to sleep – the poor man must be exhausted."

At once, Quirrell stuttered his acceptance and hurried off with Black in tow, struggling as best he could with the little strength he had left.

At last, Voldemort was left with the little group of 13 completely useless witches and wizards, standing huddled together, shivering against the cold with haunted expressions.

"Kill them," Voldemort simply stated to his remaining followers, and turned around to pick up Shamira as the lovely sound of Killing Curses being fired sounded behind his back, lighting the world up with a beautiful green sheen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Nine

* * *

Quirinus felt a chill run through his entire body at the shouts of the Killing Curse. The entire shoreline lit up by a sickeningly green light for a couple of seconds, before everything returned to silence. In his slackening grip, Black twisted and turned, staring with crazed eyes over his shoulder, as if desperate to watch the slaughter on the edge of the pier. _Abhorrent mass murderer_ , thought Quirinus with disgust and clenched his hands in a punishing grip that made Black whimper pitifully. _Is he truly so bloodthirsty that he's frothing by the mouth to watch murder_? Quirinus asked himself as he pulled the weakly struggling convict with him up the steep road and into the cold and unforgiving walls of the fortress.

Black was looking around at the interior with wide eyes, twisting his head this way and that, like a bird in captivity. "Walk," Quirinus demanded with a sneer, poking his wand harshly into Black's skeletal back to urge him into compliance.

The haggard prisoner took a few shaky steps up the staircase, clutching the banister hard as he pulled himself upwards with the help of his arms. Midway up the stairs, he made a sudden twist. A sharp elbow hit Quirinus in the stomach, and he tumbled backwards, falling head-first down the staircase.

His ears were ringing and his chest came alive with sparks of fright. His right side hit the stone steps painfully, before he tumbled ahead. " _Spongify,"_ he cast blindly, and a pink ray hit the stone floor right before he crashed into it. All air was pushed out of his lungs as he hit the spongy surface, and he clutched his right shoulder against the pain.

One moment later, the shadow-like shape of a ragged dog jumped over his sprawled form, and charged to the front doors. Quirinus struggled to his feet, standing unsteadily on the soft surface of the mattress-like floor-patch, and looked up just as Black transformed back into his human form and reached for the door handle.

Then, a sharp red ray of light hit Black in the back, and Quirinus watched uncomprehendingly as the convict slumped down to the floor and became still.

"You should have bound him," said a squeaky voice to his right, and Quirinus flipped around to come eye to eye with the quivering little rat-like man the Dark Lord had referred to as Wormtail. "He knows all sorts of tricks," Wormtail continued and scurried over to Black's fallen form, poking him gingerly in the side, as if to make sure he was indeed stunned.

"I thought he was too exhausted to try this again," Quirinus defended, slightly irked at having been bested by someone of such obvious inferiority.

"That wouldn't stop him," Wormtail piped up, sniffling as he turned to face him, studying him with his dark beady eyes. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. You, unlike me, have not become intimately acquainted with Black and his plots after years of exposure."

"Oh really?" Quirinus questioned dryly, highly doubting this lowlife had ever laid eyes on the infamous Sirius Black before. "Well, then I suppose it should have been _you_ , and not me, who was assigned to handle Black."

"Yes, it should have," Wormtail squeaked, completely sidestepping Quirinus' sarcastic comment. "You obviously neglect to handle him seriously enough, so I'll take it from here."

Quirinus then watched with stunned disbelief as Wormtail turned around and pointed his wand at the unconscious murderer, swearing a little over the disobedient wand which took a good five tries to work for him, and then unceremoniously levitated Black towards the staircase.

As the ratty little man started climbing the stairs, Quirinus twitched into action. Seeing as the Dark Lord had ordered him to personally make sure Black was safely confined in a private room and put to sleep, it would be very bad if his lord found out that he hadn't followed orders.

Quirinus hurried after Wormtail, keeping his wand at the ready in case something else of equal unexpectedness should appear before they found a suitable room for Black.

"Wait, this way," he said sharply as Wormtail made to travel deeper into the first floor. "Those rooms are all occupied at this point. We should try the second floor." Next, he led the way up the second set of stairs, impatiently urging for Wormtail to follow him when he hesitated.

Huffing with annoyance, Wormtail followed him up the stairs and into the room that, incidentally, once had been Harry Potter's. "This will do fine," Quirinus dictated and watched as Wormtail levitated Black over to the bed and unceremoniously dropped him onto the covers. "Thank you kindly for the assistance," he then said, unable to keep the contempt for the man out of his voice. "I'll take it from here."

"Hardly," Wormtail squeaked, shooting a vicious glare at him. "I need to secure the room properly, or Black _will_ escape as soon as he wakes up."

"Yes, that is true," Quirinus said, "but I am unconvinced that you are up to the task, seeing as you fail to get that wand to cooperate properly. You'd best leave the spellwork to me."

"This wand works just fine!" Wormtail screeched in fury.

"Yes yes, I'm sure," Quirinus placated him with a sneer. "Now please attend to your own assigned prisoner and leave me to it."

With a last sniffling hiss, Wormtail transformed into a rat and scurried off. _He's an Animagus_? Quirinus thought with disbelief, questioning how such a weak wizard could have ever managed such a feat.

Startled out of his thoughts at the sound of people moving through the corridor, speaking softly to one another, Quirinus eyed the room for possible escape routes, and set to warding the window for starters.

* * *

It looked to be a solemnly grey day, thought Severus as he sat nursing a steaming cup of black tea, looking out of the slim kitchen window. His toast lay untouched on his slightly chipped plate, cooling quickly as he sat mulling things over and over in his aching head. He took a slow sip and enjoyed how the instant burn on his tongue cleared his head somewhat.

It would not do to over-analyse the Dark Lord's words and expressions, Severus decided firmly, for the hundredth time; it would get him nowhere. Whether the Dark Lord would take the bait or not was completely out of Severus' hands. Now, he just had to wait and hope that Potter wasn't put in mortal danger before he could extract him from Quirrell and the Dark Lord's clutches. Hopefully, they kept him prisoner, waiting for the best opportune moment when his death would work the most in the Dark Lord's favour. Hopefully ...

Severus took another sip, and felt his head clear of musings again, and he decided once more to stop analysing the situation. He had just sunken into another dark train of thought when there was a harsh _tap tap tap_ on the window.

Looking up from the depths of his teacup, Severus realised it had been the black Barn Owl sitting on his windowsill that had made the noise. He stood up and manually opened the window before stretching out his black-clad arm for the owl to climb onto.

"Good morning, Marcia," he greeted quietly as his owl seated itself on his arm, looking up at him with intelligent black eyes. "So you still cannot find him, I take it?"

Marcia made a purring noise, spreading her dark beak wide, indicating that she had had no success in her hunt and was hungry. Not having expected an owl to be able to reach Potter, Severus still felt slightly crestfallen as he reached out to her talons and detached the letter he had penned, containing a Port Key in the form of a quill. Next, he conjured a mouse on the kitchen floor, which Marcia instantly pounced on, grabbing it harshly in one of her talons before starting to stab at it with her sharp beak.

Before he had a chance to close the window, another bird zoomed into the room, dropping the _Daily Prophet_ onto the kitchen table in a flurry of brown feathers. Next, it sat itself on the backrest of one of the wooden chairs and stretched one leg out, onto which a small leather pouch was attached. Digging out five Knuts out of his pocket, Severus paid it and watched as it spread its wings and took off again.

Immediately, Marcia took its place with an irked screech, the entire mouse now safe and sound inside her tummy. But Severus paid no attention to her, nor the open window, but stood staring down at the front page of the newspaper, reading the booming headline.

 _MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN; ALL PRISONERS SET LOOSE AFTER DEMENTOR MUTINY_

Picking the paper up with trembling hands, Severus unfolded it and took note of the picture below the headline, showing an image which moved from empty cell to empty cell. His eyes roamed over the dense text, and he quickly flipped through the paper when it said that the article continued on pages three and four.

 _... The mystery of the events leading up to the incident has not yet been solved, since all possible witnesses have received the Kiss – except for one of the prison guards, Odelia Thorn, whose disappearance baffles the Aurors ..._

Thoughts were running amok in Severus' head, creating layers upon layers of scenarios he considered and discarded, trying to find the most logical explanation. It was clear, of course, that he had misjudged the efficiency of the Dark Lord's work. Severus had firmly believed that it would be months before a plot of this scale could be even considered, let alone executed.

 _... but seems to have been made possible by the involvement of the Dementor population of Azkaban Island, which has been set free by the culprits ..._

What more was; Severus had not been called in for this mission. He had not been included in the plot at all, in fact, which increased the chance that the Dark Lord might go for _Possible Scenario 11c_. That would be a disastrous outcome, since it would mean that Severus would be kept on as a spy, while not being admitted into any other part of the Dark Lord's work. That would mean that Severus did not get invited to the Dark Lord's stronghold at all, and thus would be unable to access Potter.

 _... in a total of 47 prisoners, amongst which infamous Death Eaters such as Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange, Fenrir Greyback, Augustus Rookwood, and Sirius Black were present ..._

Severus stood frozen in place, scanning the article over and over again for a good ten minutes before a _chiming_ sound coming from the living room startled him out of his musings. Laying the paper down onto the kitchen table, he slipped into the adjacent room and took note of the hearth of his sooty old brick fireplace that sounded of the soft ringing of a bell, indicating that someone was trying to make a Floo Call.

Taking a deep breath, suspecting who might be on the other end, Severus carefully cleared his mind and flicked his wand to allow access to his fireplace. Immediately, a flame came alive in the hearth, in which the troubled face of Albus Dumbledore emerged. "Severus," the old Headmaster said sombrely, "I assume you have read today's _Prophet_?"

"Indeed," Severus answered, sitting down in his plush leather couch and leaning forwards towards the hearth. "Most unsettling news, of course."

"So I will assume you knew nothing beforehand, if this was news to you," Dumbledore said at once, piercing him with a scrutinising stare that annoyed Severus immensely.

"Had I known, Headmaster, rest assured that I would have informed the Order well ahead of time," he answered between clenched teeth, going for the sinister but still emotionally involved persona he knew Dumbledore favoured.

"Forgive me, Severus, I did not mean to insult you," Dumbledore said with an apologetic expression that made Severus' lip curl. "May I come through?"

Nodding his acceptance, Severus watched as his employer's face disappeared along with the fire, before a burst of green flame took its place and the entire body of Albus Dumbledore stepped out of it. He carefully dusted of his purple and blue robes with his wand before sitting down next to Severus in the sofa, smiling in a grandfatherly way.

"Thank you," he said, knitting his wrinkled hands together in his lap while looking around the room, "this arrangement is far kinder on the knees."

"I'm sure," Severus answered quietly, barely moving his lips.

"Quite," answered Dumbledore with an affectionate smile. "Now, Severus, I feel I must ask; have you had any contact at all with Voldemort since his return?"

"Not yet," Severus answered after involuntarily twitching at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, clearing his mind of all thoughts concerning his meeting with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. "I believe he might want to reinstate some of his former power before involving himself with the spies, lest he risk betrayal in a very vulnerable state."

"I see," said Dumbledore, looking concerned. "In that case, make sure to be careful once he decides to contact you; if he indeed feels the need to build up an army beforehand, he must be far more suspicious of you than I had predicted."

"Thank you for the concern, Headmaster," Severus said with a tinge of warmth to his voice, "but I have prepared for this particular meeting for ten years. I am confident that I will find a way to return to his favour; after all, I have been spying for him these last ten years, have I not? That must be an attractive quality."

"Yes, of course. You have played your part well, Severus," Dumbledore praised with a sad expression, laying a comforting hand onto one of his shoulders. "However, remember that my offer still stands. Would you wish to end this charade, I would personally make sure you were protected and out of Voldemort's reach."

 _Like you made sure Lily was_ , Severus thought spitefully, but soon buried that thought under a thick layer of indifference. "Thank you, Headmaster, but I think I might stick to our plans. After all, _the boy_ is not yet safe."

"Oh Severus," Dumbledore answered with a sorrowful expression. "I am sorry but ... I believe that Harry is far beyond rescue at this point. I am truly sorry."

Swallowing thickly, refusing to meet eyes with the old bastard, Severus kept his body tense. "We'll see."

* * *

"Good morning, Ilbert. Narcissa."

The crooked old man looked up at him with startled blue eyes, which seemed huge through his thick round lenses, while the very tired looking woman instantly curtseyed graciously with a soft "My lord". Healer Ilbert Abbott slowly crept back from his hunched position, moving his spider-like hands in a nervous gesture as he stepped away from the bedside and came closer. "My lord," he said as well and curtseyed shakily, "good morning."

"How is she?" Voldemort asked quietly as he walked across the room, ignoring the others in favour of taking in the sight of Bellatrix's pale sleeping face amongst the plush white pillows, onto which her raven black hair lay spread out like a pair of wings.

"Recovering," Healer Abbott answered in his creaky voice, sneaking closer to the other side of the bed, until his skeletally thin form came back into view. "A slow process, as I am sure my lord understands. Mrs Lestrange has been put under heavy physical strain after years of confinement and a lack of proper nourishment. All muscles are withered, her body fat far below what is healthy, and she is severely dehydrated. Her lungs are also in a devastating condition. This is, of course, to be expected after so many years in Azkaban ..."

"And her mental health?" Voldemort pressed when the ferret-like man trailed off, scratching his balding scalp as if in thought.

"As far as I can tell, without disturbing her much-needed rest, I would say it is ... in a horrifyingly poor state. I cannot account for her sanity, yet, but it is apparent that the prolonged exposure to Dementors ... I fear, my lord, that she will never be completely restored."

Voldemort swallowed against the bitterness that had gathered as a thick lump in his throat. "I see." He traced the side of her hollowed out face with a soft touch of the back of his left index finger, his mind filling up with memories. She had been a brilliant witch, a prodigy, and he had trained her personally. Few but her had proved worthy to spend time on, and she had kept surpassing his expectations every step of the way. To lose such a powerful ally; unacceptable!

"Rest assured that it is in your best interest to do everything in your power to help her," Voldemort said slowly, steadily keeping eye-contact with the quickly paling healer. "The one who succeeds in turning her back to the way she was will be greatly rewarded."

"Yes, my lord," Healer Abbott answered as his hands were crawling on top of each other like restless spiders. "I swear I will do everything I can for Mrs Lestrange."

"What is your report on your other patients?" Voldemort asked, straightening with an aura of perfect calmness, startling the healer slightly by the abruptness of his change in demeanour.

"Well," he croaked and cleared his throat, producing a long scroll out of thin air, which he peered at through his round glasses, leaning his head back as if that would make him see better. "Most are in a condition similar to Mrs Lestrange. The severity of their conditions depends on the length of their imprisonment, which is to be expected. Mr Greyback seems to have suffered the worst physical damage of all, since he, as my lord no doubt knows, suffers from Lycanthropy. As he has been forced to commit to complete transformations each full moon, the limited space offered to him has caused him to damage his own self out of pure instinct. The prison guards seem to have patched him up roughly, which has left his body completely coated in scars, as their care has been ... far from satisfactory.

"On the other hand," Healer Abbott continued, quickly moving his hands over the scroll so as to get to the bottom of it, making the upper part of it flow down to the floor in a messy pile. "The one who seems to have suffered the least physical, and remarkably also mental, damage is one Sirius Black. Black has been imprisoned for about as long as Mrs Lestrange here. However, he shows few signs of deteriorated muscle mass – he is thin, yes, but he still has a wiry sort of strength to him. His organs are intact, although his lungs have taken some damage. Continued exposure to cold and unforgiving wetness does that, you see, my lord."

"Very well," Voldemort answered, not mentioning his suspicions that Black's Animagi transformations had kept his muscles active, "make sure they all get back to health. Good day."

"Of course, my lord. Good day," Healer Abbott answered, and Narcissa bade him farewell as well, before he turned around and silently Apparated to his office.

A steady trickle of rain fell from the grey sky outside the four windows, creating a soft sound as the droplets splattered onto the glass. In her frame, Rebecca Ravenclaw sat slumbering beneath the greatest of the lush ash trees, and in her glass tank, Shamira lay basking on top of the warm stone in the centre of the box. On his desk lay today's _Daily Prophet_ , left there at one point by the house-elves, and looking at the front page, a pleased grin spread wide on his face. Things had certainly gone well yesterday.

"Elf," he called out, instantly hearing a _pop_ behind his back. Without bothering to turning around, he leaned over the desk and started flicking through the newspaper as she spoke. "Check up on Harry for me. If he is still asleep, awaken him and tell him to get dressed. I will require his company presently."

"Yes, master," a squeaky little voice said before another _pop_ indicated its departure. Voldemort didn't have to wait long before the very rugged-looking form of his young apprentice appeared in the doorway leading to their quarters.

"Approach," Voldemort commanded quietly as he refolded the newspaper and turned around to face Harry, who appeared to have suffered from nightmares, judging by the haunted look on his face. "The time has come for you and me to have a little _talk_ , Harry," he explained, watching as the boy's eyes sparkled alive with a tinge of intrigue.

"What about?" the boy asked in a quiet voice, blinking tiredly.

Repressing the urge to hiss at him for his disrespect, Voldemort settled on levelling a commanding glare at him. "Check your manners."

"Err, sorry ... What about, master?"

"Come," Voldemort explained, indicating with a hand movement to the square table in the middle of the room. With a quick swish of his wand, he conjured a pair of dark wooden chairs with plush leather seats on each side of the table, before levitating the strategy map and figures off its surface and onto the side of his desk. Next, he took a seat in the chair with its back to his desk, waiting for Harry to follow suit before calling out, "Elf" again.

 _Pop_. "We will have tea. Harry, have you eaten?" The boy mutely shook his head. "Reply properly," Voldemort demanded firmly, quickly losing patience with the boy's flippant behaviour.

"No, master."

"Very well, breakfast too, then."

As the elf hurried to comply, summoning a kettle and two cups before serving a steaming tray of scones, Voldemort picked up on the conversation. "Concerning the discovery you made last night, which seems to have put you out of sorts; I feel it is imperative to reassure you that you are in no danger whatsoever. I am unaware of the nature of the conversation you had with the other piece of your soul, but it is apparent that the experience has shaken you."

Harry visibly tensed up as he learned of the topic of their conversation. "You mean the voice in my head," the boy stated crudely, with the same tone of insolence as earlier.

"Indeed," Voldemort said dryly, commanding the kettle to pour for them with a short hand-movement. "Explain what happened, starting at the moment you became aware of _the voice_ , as you call it."

"Well ..." Harry started, indicating with a short twist of the head to the right side of the table, from Voldemort's perspective. "I was standing there, looking at the map. I was wondering where we were on it ... and the voice told me that we should be in the middle of the sea, close to Azkaban. And I realised that I didn't even know what Azkaban was, so I couldn't know _where_ it was either, and that was when the voice started speaking again. Telling me things, and ... I sort of freaked out, I guess." The last bit had been barely audible, but Voldemort, who prided himself on his impeccable hearing, caught it all.

"I see," he replied, taking care to keep his posture relaxed as to inspire calmness in the boy, before reaching out to his steaming hot teacup and taking a slow sip. "What was it telling you?" he asked and put the cup down onto its saucer.

Harry sat very still in complete silence for a good while, looking to be mulling something over in his head. " _How dare he make Lord Voldemort wait?_ " one of his soul shards supplied unhelpfully, and another filled in with " _What is he hiding?_ "

"Harry," Voldemort finally said in a cold tone, "you are treading dangerously close to the line of what I would deem disrespectful to your superiors. I tire of stressing the fact that you _shall_ show me reverence as your master."

"I'm sorry, master." A peculiar expression crossed over the boy's face, and when more and more of his soul shards urged him that the boy was hiding something, Voldemort lost all patience and took a dive into the boy's mind. He kept his touch light so as to not alert Harry to his presence, carefully slipping beneath the shield he'd created around the boy's mind last night, and caught tiny glimpses of an extremely corpulent man sporting a bushy black moustache and a pair of small, blue eyes that glared darkly.

" _Come here, boy!" ... "You listen to your aunt, you disrespectful little freak!" ... "We clothe you, we feed you, and this is how you thank us?" ... "Well, I've got news for you, boy! I'm locking you up! You can stay in that cupboard until you decide to show some respect!"_

Carefully slipping out of Harry's mind, causing no damage whatsoever, Voldemort sneered at the image of the fat man. A Muggle? Quite obviously the boy's guardian. " _How dare he compare you to that beast!?_ " one of his soul shards snarled viciously. " _You can use this,_ " another shard supplied.

"Harry," Voldemort said in a calculatedly soft voice, "I repeat that you have absolutely nothing to fear. I am doing everything in my might to keep you safe."

The peculiar expression slipped off Harry's face, and he looked confused, as if he had been expecting another response to his continued insolence. Then, mercifully, he started speaking. "The voice told me that it was a piece of my soul ... that it was _me_ , just somewhere else ... that it had been speaking to me for days, but I didn't know ..."

"And then, you 'freaked out'," Voldemort concluded, watching Harry's expression carefully as he seemed to deflate.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly, keeping his eyes glued to a patch of the floor to Voldemort's right.

"How are you feeling about it now?"

"I don't know," Harry said in an evasive manner. "It's weird, I guess, to have a voice in your head." Then, barely audibly: "I guess I really am a freak."

"It isn't weird, and you are in no way a freak, Harry," Voldemort supplied softly, taking another sip from his tea cup before continuing. "It is simply a side-effect of having Horcruxes. I have voices in my head too, and not just one, mind, since I am in the possession of far more soul shards than you."

Radiating stark surprise, the boy looked up at him with wide eyes. "You hear voices too?"

"Yes," Voldemort replied simply with a kind smile, which felt distinctly _wrong_ to produce. The things he did for this boy.

"So it's not weird then?" Harry stressed, looking desperate for assurance. "It's just what happens if you have Horcruxes?"

"Indeed," Voldemort supplied, quickly growing wary of answering questions to something he had already explained. "Now, eat your breakfast before it cools completely." He sat staring at the boy until he complied; carefully picking out a scone, laying it onto his plate before smearing it with butter and strawberry jam. "You may have wondered why the soul shard has not made contact with you since last night."

Mouth full of food, Harry nodded, and with a small sigh, Voldemort decided to let it slide this time. Since it appeared that Harry was a victim of childhood abuse, he realised that he would have to tread the line between being authoritative and being kind very carefully if he wanted to inspire loyalty in the boy.

"I deemed it necessary to put up a mental shield for you, to keep the voice at bay, just until we could have this conversation," Voldemort explained patiently. "Whenever I feel it necessary to shut my own voices out, I use a technique called Occlumency to create similar shields around my own mind. This form of mind-art is fairly complex, but not at all difficult to learn, if you would like to."

"You'd teach me?" Harry asked with wonder.

"I am your master," Voldemort replied, "and I believe I have already revealed my intentions to educate you in everything I know. Of course, I will let you decide whether it sounds useful or not at this point in time, but eventually, I will teach you both Occlumency and Legilimency."

"Oh, okay," Harry said, looking a bit overwhelmed. "Yes, master, I'd like to learn. It would be nice to be able to shut the voice out."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "If you believe that this would enable you to keep it out completely, reconsider. Keeping a mental shield up for an extended period of time would take a lot of Mana, and as I have already taught you, there is a limit to how much you can use and for how long you can maintain a spell."

"Oh," Harry said again, looking disappointed.

"I suggest that you take the time to get to know your soul shard today," Voldemort said and drank the last of his tea in a series of long swigs. "You will have to get used to the fact that you have another piece of your soul, and that it is not going away. It will be a life-long companion, Harry, and I need you to come to terms with that."

"All right," the boy replied at length, resigned to his fate. "I mean ... Yes, master."

"Very good," Voldemort replied before summoning a scroll and a quill from his desk. He then undid the fastenings on the parchment, and watched as the neat script he had finished writing only this morning came into view. "This," he said, holding the parchment up for Harry to see, "is a contract I need you to sign, concerning your apprenticeship. It will bind us through agreement until the day of your seventeenth birthday. I will be completely responsible for your education, and you will be entitled to demand a certain standard to said education. I will be entitled to your full cooperation and respect, while you will have the right to a certain amount of hours reserved for lessons a month. You may read it before you sign it, if you wish."

Harry watched him for a long moment, casting glances at the parchment and the thick wall of text on it. "It's all right," he said finally, "I'll just sign it. I don't really have a choice, do I? If I don't, you'll just lock me up somewhere instead."

Smiling in appreciation of the boy's lack of struggle, Voldemort didn't deny the statement, but only laid the parchment onto the table, and handed the quill over to the boy. "This is a Blood Quill," he explained as Harry accepted it. "It will use your blood as ink, so do not worry if you feel a slight discomfort in your hand as you write."

Voldemort smiled in satisfaction as the boy wrote his name under his own blood red signature. _Excellent!_

"Thank you, Harry," he said and made the parchment roll itself back into a neat scroll with a tap of his finger. Then, he let the scroll and quill drift back to his desk as he arose and walked over to Harry's side with his wand drawn. "I will remove the shield now, and then I will leave you alone. I recommend you stay in your room for the day, seeing as the fortress is full of allies, followers, healers and patents at the moment, and I believe it best if you are left undisturbed as you acquaint yourself with your soul shard."

After receiving a mute not from his apprentice, Voldemort laid his left hand onto the boy's head and carefully undid the mental shield, watching as the green eyes filled with determination. "Finish your breakfast," he dictated once he was done, and then Apparated to the second floor of the fortress, shifting his focus onto the next task at hand.

* * *

 _Hello_ , Harry thought carefully in the wake of the Dark Lord's departure, nibbling a little on a small piece of scone.

" _Hello,_ " the voice answered a moment later, and instantly, Harry felt his heart speed up at the unnaturalness of having something foreign inside his head. " _How are you?_ " the voice asked.

 _I'm all right_ , Harry thought, unable to keep other fleeting thoughts away as they rose to the surface. _Scared ... Worried ... Relieved ... Suspicious ..._

" _I see,"_ the voice answered. " _You don't need to fear me, Harry. I'm you, just separate._ "

 _I know_ , Harry thought, _I just feel a bit weird_.

" _It's all right,_ " the voice assured him kindly, " _you've only just become aware of me after all. I'd probably react the same if I hadn't watched you live your life ever since we were split apart_."

 _You've been watching me?_ thought Harry in surprise. _All the time?_

" _Yes, I am constantly aware of you, and since my vessel's life has been painfully uneventful until just recently, not much else has been occupying me._ "

 _Your vessel ... You mean Voldemort?_

" _Yes_."

Feelings of intrigue shot through Harry's mind, and the voice actually chuckled. _So you know what Voldemort is doing? All the time?_

" _What he's doing; what he's thinking, to some extent. I have no access to his immediate thoughts or to his other soul shards ... but I get glimpses._ "

 _What's he doing now?_ Harry wondered, feeling a spark of excitement at the thought of being able to keep an eye on Voldemort.

" _It doesn't work like that, exactly,_ " the voice claimed. " _Like I said, I get glimpses. And I have to focus on him entirely if I wish to monitor him – and that would tire you out as well, since we're the same soul, and I'm not sure you could ... take the strain yet. That is why Voldemort generally don't use his own soul piece inside of you to keep an eye on you. He doesn't like wasting his own strength when he can use other sets of eyes._ "

 _What do you mean?_ Harry demanded at once. _Is Voldemort spying on me?_

" _Look to your left_ ," the voice supplied, and when Harry did so, he met eyes with the well-dressed girl in the frame, who sat leaning against a tree trunk, watching him with a small smile on her red lips. " _She's assigned to follow you around the fortress, walking from frame to frame. The only time you're truly alone is outside, and even then, there are snakes all over the island, watching you._ "

Feeling extremely self-conscious all of a sudden, Harry arose from his seat and walked across the room and into the stairwell leading up to his and Voldemort's rooms. At least, in there, he knew there were no paintings. _Are we alone now?_

" _We are ... but you don't need to hide from them. They're just watching to make sure you're not in danger. They're not reporting on you, generally. Voldemort uses the house-elves for that_."

 _Brilliant_ , thought Harry, starting to feel a little bit claustrophobic. _I'm never going to be left alone again, am I?_

" _Better get used to it_ ," the voice supplied, sounding apologetic. " _I'll stay quiet if you wish, but I can't help being aware of you_."

 _No, it's fine_ , Harry thought as he slumped down onto one of the stone steps, leaning against the cold wall. _I'll know you're there anyway ... It would feel even weirder if we were just ignoring each other after this point._

" _Okay_ ," the voice said, and a warm, comforting feeling spread through Harry's entire body.

 _So, how was it growing up with Voldemort?_

" _I didn't grow up with Voldemort,_ " the voice contradicted, sounding amused, " _I grew up with you._ "

 _But then,_ Harry thought, biting his lip, _why didn't you make contact until now?_

" _I wasn't strong enough,_ " the soul shard claimed. " _I was entwined with Voldemort's soul, but we had no form, no vessel to keep us grounded. Sometimes, we inhabited animals, but they died soon enough, so we built up strength slowly. It wasn't until Voldemort possessed Quirrell we had any chance to regain our strength properly, and even then, Voldemort took most of it. It's only now that he's back to full strength, with his own body, that I've had any chance to recover._ "

 _Oh_ , thought Harry wondering what that had felt like.

" _It felt like being asleep, most of the time, or being on the verge of falling asleep rather. It felt like getting short glimpses of being awake, but being asleep most of the time, dreaming of your life, feeling what you felt. Sometimes, I even forgot that I wasn't you, and tried to do things – and when you did something completely different, of course, I remembered._ "

 _That sounds very sad_ , Harry decided, filled up at once with strong feelings of sympathy for that lost piece of himself, which was him, but also wasn't somehow. Perhaps, he didn't have it so bad after all. He could have just as easily been on the other end of the connection, being the one locked away, unable to do anything except speaking.

" _Don't think of it like that_ ," the voice urged with great affection. " _You'll go insane. I'm all right where I am. And I'm glad that I can speak to you now. Don't feel sorry for me – I don't. I like it here_."

 _Really?_ Harry thought with disbelief.

" _I do,_ " the voice assured him. " _I haven't ever really known any other life, except for that year as a baby, which I don't really remember a whole lot of. This is my existence, and I'm happy with it. Sure, sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to live your life, but if I'm being realistic, I don't really wish to._ "

 _Yeah, my life sucks pretty bad, huh,_ Harry thought wistfully, and laughed along with his soul shard, thinking that, perhaps, constantly having someone else in his head wasn't going to be quite as horrible as he had thought it would.


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Ten

* * *

The heavy dungeon door creaked open, and a gust of the cold, musty air reached his nose as he stepped into the dark space. He strode across the stone floor to the right side of the room, reaching the long bench upon which thirty nests lay in a neat row.

With deft hands, Voldemort slowly lifted one the fat toads off its treasure and removed the little egg from the nest. Holding it up close to his face, inspecting it closely, he saw that the previously pearl white surface had taken on a green tint, spreading from the bottom to the tip, creating a pretty ombré effect. That meant the egg was in the middle of its transmutation. _Three more days, and it will hatch_ , Voldemort evaluated with a pleased smile, before putting the egg back into its nest and covering it with the brooding toad.

 _The eggs are in a very fragile state and in need of supervision_ , thought Voldemort. _Perhaps a house-elf is suitable to take care of that._

"Elf," he called out, and immediately, there was a _pop_ to his right. It was the lanky creature with huge green eyes that he had received from the Malfoy family, Voldemort noted. It studied him closely, almost cunningly, with dark judgement in its eyes. Voldemort instantly tensed, looking down at the little creature with growing suspicion. He recognised in the back of his mind that he had taken note of this particular elf at several occasions before this. It seemed to have a peculiar ability to appear right when he needed it.

"I must say, the swiftness of your attention is far superior to your peers," he mused in a cold voice, narrowing his eyes when the elf started to shiver in fear, adopting a shamed expression. "It is almost as if you're constantly lying in wait for the moment I'll call for you. Why is that?"

"Dobby lives to serve master," the elf claimed and bowed so deeply his long nose was squished against the stone floor. "Dobby always does Dobby's best to give master good service, sir."

"So you _do_ lie in wait for my call?" Voldemort questioned with growing suspicion, feeling fury starting to boil in the depths of his mind. "Do you neglect your other duties?"

"Oh no, master!" Dobby exclaimed with impossibly wide eyes. "Dobby is paying attention to master, he is. But Dobby is also completing all tasks as best he can."

 _It's not denying it_. Voldemort levelled a dark glare onto the quivering creature. "I do not think I need to point out that _spying_ on ones master is not prudent for a house-elf."

The elf let out a fearful sob and bowed deeply again. "No, master," he squeaked. "Dobby apologises. Dobby –" Disgustingly, the elf broke down in snivels and hiccups. "Dobby only wishes to keep an eye on master, just to know what master is planning, so that Dobby can be prepared –" The elf gasped fearfully when Voldemort levelled his wand on it.

"Know your place," he hissed as fury clouded his senses. _How dare he? A mere house-elf?_ "I am starting to suspect a hidden agenda here." _What had the elf learned? On whose orders was it acting?_ "What did the Malfoys tell you before you left their service?"

"Nothing, master! Dobby swears – Dobby could never lie to master! Dobby just did what Dobby thought best!"

 _An abnormality_ , thought Voldemort with distain, the Killing Curse on the tip of his tongue. _An elf with its own wishes and agendas, aside from those of its master – far too dangerous to be kept alive_.

" _Unless it has been obliviated_ ," a soul shard supplied right as he was about to dispose of the creature. " _It might act subconsciously on an order it has received, if the Malfoys indeed did send it to you without dismissing its service completely. You could search its mind."_

" _No! Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!_ "

" _It's connected to Harry_ ," a far calmer voice supplied – the one that was in the closest proximity to him. " _It has been telling him things, making escape plans. I see it now ... easier when you know what to look for._ "

" _Would the Malfoys plot Harry's escape?_ " another shard questioned before scoffing _._ " _I find that hard to believe._ "

" _That disrespectful little pest needs to die before it causes harm to the operation, or to your human Horcrux._ "

" _I said kill it! Kill it now!_ "

Feeling an intense surge of fury, inspired by the myriad of voices clouding up his mind, Voldemort slammed his Occlumency Shields down and let out a relieved breath when everything instantly went silent. Now, the only sound that could be heard was the pathetic snivelling of the elf. _Disgusting creature!_

" _Legilimens!_ " Voldemort intoned, entering the elf's mind with terrible force, ripping his way through at a furious speed. In the background, he heard vaguely how the elf screamed bloody murder, and silently rejoiced in the feeling of once more possessing the power to inflict pain on somebody else.

The intricate nooks and crannies of Dobby's mind contained many memories of him acting out of his own free will, side-stepping or outright ignoring his masters' orders sometimes. The realisation that this flawed elf was a gift from the Malfoys made Voldemort grind his teeth against the dark fury, and he once again questioned the family's loyalty to him in the privacy of his mind.

He filed through the elf's mind very thoroughly, and yet, no sign of manipulation or long-lasting orders which could be working subconsciously were to be found. It truly seemed like the elf was an abnormality, acting out of its own free will.

Until; one repressed memory, hidden behind a layer of obscuring magic. Voldemort ripped his way through, and was met by the scowling face of Severus Snape, peering down at him inside a darkly lit hallway. Focusing on the elf's recollection, he realised that it was a memory from this past Easter, and that Snape had been invited to dinner at the Malfoy estate to celebrate with his close friends and godson.

" _Listen closely, Dobby, this is very important," Snape said in a hushed tone, leaning down to the elf after casting a look over his shoulder, towards a half-open door, leading into a brightly lit up dining room. "I have reason to believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will soon return, and I doubt that we have much time before that happens. If Lucius is called to his side, and you happen to somehow be in a position to learn of his plans, you must do what you can to keep me informed. In the previous war, the Dark Lord used Malfoy Manor as one of his headquarters, and should he repeat that, I will trust you to watch him as closely as you dare without being found out."_

" _Yes, Master Snape, sir. Dobby will do his best –"_

"– _Yes, yes," Snape snapped impatiently, casting another look over his shoulder, "pay attention; it is equally as important that should the Dark Lord get his hands on Harry Potter, I will trust you to remove him from his possession and bring him to safety, if you find yourself in the position to do so."_

" _Yes, master, of course Dobby will keep Harry Potter safe –"_

" _Good," said Snape and straightened, before levelling his wand on the small elf. "It is imperative that no-one learns of this, so I shall lock away the memory inside your mind. You will still act on it, since it is an order, but you will have no recollection of this conversation."_

 _The house-elf nodded and closed its eyes as Snape swiftly performed the Memory Charm._

After Voldemort had slipped out of Dobby's mind, he was met with a pair of darkly glaring green eyes, looking up at him from the floor, where the elf lay in a heap, looking like a very ugly broken toy. After freezing the elf with the Full Body-Bind Curse, Voldemort allowed himself to sink into dark musings.

If Snape was the Malfoy heir's godfather, he would be considered extended family, and would have some sway over the house-elves. Taking into account that this particular elf displayed an abnormal amount of autonomy, it could possibly choose on whose orders it would act. Additionally, when the Malfoys had transferred the elf's services to their master, they would have renounced their own ties to it, but they could have neglected to include Snape. That would mean that, subconscious or not, Snape's order would still be in effect even after the elf had left its former family.

Dark thoughts filled his mind; how many layers of deception did Snape make use of? It was clear that the facade he had used during their last meeting carried some truth to it; Snape certainly seemed devoted to Harry, and Voldemort recalled how he as a younger man had pleaded for him to spare Lily Potter. But what lay beneath that facade? Was he loyal to Dumbledore? He had claimed to hate Lord Voldemort for killing Lily Potter, the love of his life, while still being a supporter of the Dark side?

It was obvious, however, that whatever side Snape stood on, he was plotting to work against his lord. Whether this was on Dumbledore's orders or not would have to be investigated.

Ever so slowly, with a nasty smirk on his face, Voldemort crouched in front of the little elf, which looked up at him with pure hatred radiating out of his huge green eyes. "Congratulations," Voldemort said silkily, "you have just been promoted ... to bait. _Imperio!_ "

* * *

The entire fortress was buzzing with motion – healers running from room to room, evaluating patients under the stern supervision of Healer Abbott; patients carefully slipping out of bed to view their surroundings and get a sense of freedom; relatives of the patients running after them, complaining about their health and urging them back to bed.

Quirinus couldn't stand any of it and kept to his room, keeping it dark and gloomy as he sat in his armchair in front of the fireplace, leafing through one of his absolute favourite Muggle novels; _American Psycho_. Probably the only good thing that had come out of last year, Quirinus mused dryly, thinking of his horrible decision to travel the world. Why couldn't he just have stayed in good old Britain?

His travels had taught him a good lot of things – most dark and sinister, but some of them interesting and valuable. Such as the fact that he had a flare for learning new languages; it had merely taken him two weeks of living in India to get good enough at Hindi to get around. He had also learned that he was quite terrified of vampires, and that he really loved the Indian wizards sense of style; he had loved it well enough to get himself a turban of his own, after all, and he could truly say he cherished it.

But all those experiences paled in comparison to what had occurred at the end of his travels, when he had moved from Greece into Albania, and encountered a dark forest that piqued his interest ... _Why did I ever enter that forest?_

Quirinus kept leafing through the novel, but the words on the pages didn't register with his muddled mind. All he could think of was last night, and the terror of his first mission as a Death Eater. His eyes kept flicking between the page and his left arm, where the Dark Mark was burned onto the skin beneath his purple sleeve, and a choking feeling crept up on his neck, making it hard to breathe.

Broken sobs escaped his mouth, and he leaned his forehead heavily in his right hand, shivering with terror and regret of what he had done. Memories of Azkaban's dark hallways and its gaunt inhabitants haunted him; faces of murderers, abusers, rapists and thieves staring back at him with gleeful expressions. _They were in there for a reason, and I let them out_.

Quirinus questioned his existence with deep regret, wondering what he could accomplish in this state – being the Dark Lord's puppet. How many more crimes would he commit against his own will? Because he was too much of a coward to stand up for what was right rather than what was easy. How many more would be murdered in front of him before this was over? How many of those murders would be on his hands?

As Quirinus sat in his armchair, sobbing, he slowly became aware of a light scratching noise coming from the side of his dresser. The noise came in waves; it sounded for a second, and then it went silent, only to sound again for a couple of more second, and falling silent again. The noise brought him back to reality and he turned in his chair to try to see where the noise came from. When he didn't see anything, he arose and put the book down on his bed.

He sneaked closer to the dresser, trying to spy the origin of the sound, and took out his wand in preparation. If he wasn't mistaken, that noise sounded just like vermin. And sure enough, as he peered into the darkness next to the dresser, he caught sight of a fat, dust-brown coloured rat scratching away at the wall to open up the little crack that could be seen there.

Quirinus sneered in disgust, wondering why the house-elves hadn't taken care of the rat-problem yet, and aimed his wand. " _Evanesco_!" he intoned and a light beam flew out of the tip of his wand and at the rat, but amazingly, right before it hit its target, the rat scurried to the side, looking up at him with intelligent black eyes. Quirinus frowned and tried again, but the rat kept evading his spells. All of a sudden, it scurried between his legs deeper into the room, and when he whipped around to catch it, another Vanishing Spell on the tip of his tongue, he watched it transform into a man.

"Stop! Stop you imbecile! It's me!" Wormtail squeaked, holding his fat hands up in front of his panicked face.

Quirinus stared at the man in disbelief, not lowering his wand. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded with outrage, not comprehending why Wormtail would invite himself into his room like this.

The plump little man sniffled pitifully and glared up at him with his beady little eyes. "Oh look at you. Think you're all important, don't you, with your funny little boots, balancing that ridiculous turban on you tiny little head."

"Excuse me?" Quirinus exclaimed in outrage. "Why are you in here? To declare your distaste towards my fashion sense? Have you had a good look at yourself recently? Do you even own a mirror?"

"Why would I?" Wormtail squeaked, scrunching his pointy little face up to show a pair of large front teeth. "I don't have anywhere to store it. We aren't all so _favoured_ by our Lord that we get our own rooms."

Quirinus raised his eyebrows at the pure jealousy in Wormtail's voice, and pretended to look around the very tiny space. "Room," he pointed out. "Singular."

"You think you're funny, don't you?" Wormtail accused, stalking closer in a way that was probably supposed to look intimidating, but only looked silly in Quirinus' opinion. "What great thing did you do to get you in our Lord's favour anyway?"

"I brought him back?" Quirinus supplied and earned a dark sneer from the other man.

"I could have done that," Wormtail claimed furiously. "If I'd only known, I could have been the one – and I would have done a right better job than you have, for sure."

"Oh really?" Quirinus challenged, starting to get fed up with this strange rivalry. "But that's not the case, is it? I was the one who brought him back, so it is I who get all the privileges."

Wormtail sniffled angrily, and twisted his face into an ugly smile. "For now. The Dark Lord has already started to turn to me instead of you – I'll see you fall from grace, Quirrell. You have nothing on me. I got to accompany our Lord personally to Azkaban last night. I'm the Animagus – the useful one. You? You're expendable, Quirrell. You've come as far as you can. Me? I'll climb the ladder and get past and beyond you before long. And you'll be left behind, opening doors and taking people's cloaks."

And with those words, Wormtail transformed back into a rat and scurried over to the other side of the room and disappeared into a tiny hole Quirinus hadn't noticed until now.

 _Oh, you just wait and see Wormtail,_ he thought spitefully, blood still boiling. _You just wait and see_ ...

* * *

The light of the moon shone through the tall windows in the first floor study; a rectangular room containing a heavy desk with a couple of handsome leather armchairs in front of it. In one end stood a handsome empire mahogany fireplace with a mirror on top; in the other stood Lord Voldemort, holding Peter Pettigrew's left arm in a punishing grip.

 _Curious. Very curious._ Voldemort carefully poked the Dark Mark on Wormtail's flabby arm and watched as the red tattoo turned black in an instant. It was obvious to him now that something was indeed terribly wrong with Wormtail's version of the mark.

With deep concentration, he thought back to the time when he had burned it onto his follower's skin – the night of his destruction. Wormtail had come to him, tempted by his offers of grandeur, and revealed the secret location of his supposed best friends. As a reward, Voldemort had marked him ... then and there?

Examining the memory carefully, Voldemort recoiled in outrage. He had marked Wormtail without the ceremony? That would explain why it acted unpredictably, and would have summoned Wormtail along the other Death Eaters. _But why had he decided to do so_? _And why had he not, until now, thought the decision strange?_

"My Lord?" squeaked Wormtail fearfully once Voldemort dropped his arm and moved to stand by the window, looking out at the billowing ocean. "Did you find out what is wrong with it?"

"Yes," Voldemort answered shortly, narrowing his eyes in thought. _I could not have been in my right mind ... Have I marked other Death Eaters this way?_

Behind his back, Wormtail was scuffling his feet nervously, probably wondering if he would get an explanation or if he would have to ask for one. "Leave," Voldemort instructed quietly before he got the chance to try.

"Y-yes, my Lord," squeaked the man, and seemed to move slowly to the door. Annoyingly, however, he stopped before getting to the door. Even more annoyingly, after a short pause, he spoke again. "I must express my thanks for being allowed to stay here," he simpered, sniffling happing when Voldemort slowly turned back around and levelled his red eyes onto him.

"Lord Voldemort always provides what is necessary for his loyal followers," he said in a quiet voice, laced with promises of intense pain if he continued to overstep his boundaries.

"Yes, yes thank you, my Lord," Wormtail insisted nervously, apparently choosing to ignore the implied warning. "I am merely wondering, my Lord, where my room shall be. It seems to me like all rooms are taken. Even that _Quirrell_ person has his own room."

Voldemort watched his obnoxious follower with a glint of evil in his eyes, deciding on what mild punishment he should dish out for Wormtail's insolent attitude. At length, he said, "Why, Wormtail, I had thought it obvious. You shall have no room – what use would a rat make of one? Sleep in your Animagus form."

At first, Wormtail looked about to protest, but once he dared meet eyes with his lord, he went pale as a sheet and hurriedly shuffled back into his hunched posture, twining his nervous, long-nailed hands together pitifully. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord." And then, mercifully, he left.

 _This surely is discouraging_ , Voldemort mused, turning back to look out the window. _Not only does my reaction to that prophesy mystify me, but now it appears that my spell craft had turned sloppy as well?_

" _If his Dark Mark is indeed faulty, it will have to be done over again_ ," mused the dark voice of one of his soul shards. " _But will it be worth the extra work? His only redeeming quality is his Animagus form – but can you trust him to do your bidding? After all, he betrayed his best friends – what is stopping him from betraying you next?_ "

" _He is nothing but a disgrace_ ," insisted another. " _A poor excuse for a wizard. Kill him_!"

" _You have learned all his secrets already_ ," agreed a third voice. " _He has nothing left to give, and his loyalty is weak at best._ "

Voldemort nodded slowly to himself. _That is sensible. I do have one last use for him ... But his life or death does little matter in the long run. My observations, however ..._

Dark suspicions filled his mind, possible suspects popping up one after the other, the name Severus Snape ringing loudly in his ears after the little bit of intelligence he had learned from the house-elf earlier that day.

He forcefully brought back memories from 10 years back, scanning them closely for clues, growing annoyed with their obscurity. As far as he could tell, he was behaving normally, but every now and then, his mind seemed to switch and turned muddled by a strong feeling of ... fear? _What is this?_ He got a recollection of hearing the Prophesy for the first time – rushed, gleeful words streaming out of a young Severus Snape's mouth. And his own reaction – a mind clouded by fear; a desperation to find out what it all meant and how he could stop it; a blind trust in Snape's story, despite his previous mistrust in Divination.

 _That couldn't have been me_ , he thought desperately, racking his brain for more clues. _Why did I act like that?_ He stood there for a long time, staring out at the billowing ocean, trying to make sense of his discoveries.

At last, he felt exhausted and unsatisfied; plagued by the mystery. And the voices of his soul shards were running wild with speculations inside his head, giving him a raging headache. Silencing them with a firm Occlumency barrier, Voldemort cleared his mind of all dark thoughts. _I need a distraction_.

* * *

Quirinus felt refreshed. After this dreary day it had felt nice with a long hot bath to relax his tense body. The bathroom in connection to his own room didn't have a tub, so he had ventured to the first floor to use one up there, which was why he ran into Wormtail right as he was scurrying down the corridor after leaving the Dark Lord's office.

Both caught by surprise, they crashed into each other unexpectedly. Quirrell let out an undignified yelp while Wormtail squeaked pitifully, right before they took in the sight of one another, and their eyes instantly filled up with dark, ugly hatred.

"Watch where you're going," Quirrell demanded, straightening his robes, feeling disgusted that his clean body had come into contact with something so dirty.

"You're the one who should watch it, you lanky klutz!" Wormtail screeched in unhinged fury, already steaming with anger, as if something had happened before their encounter.

"What's wrong?" Quirinus couldn't help but utter tauntingly, so infuriated by the little man that he couldn't take it anymore. "Your little meeting with our Lord didn't go very well? He didn't let you climb the ladder, as you put it?"

"SHUT UP!" Wormtail snarled and pulled out his wand, his watery eyes spread wide, making him look positively possessed. Quickly, Quirinus took out his own wand, just in time to throw up a Shield Charm against Wormtail's sudden red-beamed spell. It crashed into the shield and bounced back, suddenly zooming back towards Wormtail, who squeaked and transformed, just in time to evade it.

Next, he scurried off along the shadow-cast sides of the corridor, so quickly that Quirinus barely had the time to register what was happening. And then, he disappeared from view.

Quirinus was still boiling with rage and had half a mind to track the little pest down and give him a good cursing. _Next time I see him_ , he promised himself, _I'll challenge him to a proper duel. And then, we'll see who the better one is. And if he runs off then, he'll just be a coward._

Satisfied with his decision, Quirinus let out a deep breath and started to walk back to his room, deciding to treat himself to a nice cup of tea and biscuits.

* * *

An excited smirk slowly curled the corners of Voldemort's lips once he reached the door of one of the guest rooms. He lifted his left hand to identify the Locking Spells that had been used, and flicked his wand to undo them once he recognised their patterns.

The lock clicked open, the door swung inwards and he stepped into the room. Inside of the dark room, only lit up by the soft sheen of the moon, a pair of eerily glowing grey eyes peered at him from the shadowed bed.

"Good evening, Black," he greeted quietly as the door slipped closed behind him.

Not saying a word, he took the time to light the brass candle holders hanging off the walls, before conjuring a comfortable black armchair. As he took a seat in the chair, which stood with its back facing the door, he kept eye-contact with the shaggy black dog which lay on top of the bedcovers, staring back at him with ice-cold hatred.

"It is good to see that you are indeed recovering," he observed, closely watching Black's reactions. So far, his expression had not changed. "According to Healer Abbott, your muscles and organs are in a very good state, in comparison to the other patients. Impressive, isn't it, the healthy amount of exercise one can get from simply transforming into an animal?"

Black was still watching him with a stony expression, a growl on the tip of his tongue. But additionally, a tint of wonder had seeped into the dog's steel grey eyes. No doubt, Black was trying his best to discern his purpose. Voldemort allowed himself a moment of amusement, carefully indulged in the depth of his mind so that no signs of it would be seen. _Dangerous feeling, curiosity. You'd better be careful, Black_.

"But then again, how you kept your sanity is all the more impressive. They don't care much for dogs, do they, Dementors?" He curled his mouth into a smile which actually made that growl escape black's lips. Voldemort simply continued smiling until Black fell silent once again. "How fortunate, then, that Lord Voldemort took mercy and broke you out of there ..." Black started growling once again, but this time, Voldemort kept talking. "I bet you would have survived a whole lifetime in Azkaban the way you were handling yourself. You must be grateful."

With a furious bark, Black flew off the bed and transformed into his human form mid-leap, throwing himself right at Voldemort with raised hands, ready to strike. The moment he came close enough to nearly touch Voldemort's lounging form, however, he hit an invisible barrier and bounced backwards, falling heavily onto the Persian carpet at Voldemort's feet.

"Now, that wasn't very polite," Voldemort observed lazily while Black struggled to his feet, backing away with a wild expression on his face.

"Shut up!" he snarled in a wheezy voice, no doubt sounding like that from lack of use. With a furious expression he pointed an accusing finger at the seated Dark Lord. "Don't say another word, you monster! I don't want anything from you, and I sure as hell don't feel _gratitude_!"

Voldemort stretched his mouth into a chilling smile and arose from his seat. "If not gratitude; what do you feel?" Slowly, he stepped closer to Black, who was backing away step by step towards the cold stone wall. "Anger? Hatred? Fear?"

"Oh that's right! I fucking hate you! But I don't fear you, Voldemort!" Black snarled and contradictorily pressed his back flush against the wall with a highly guarded expression. "If you're going to kill me, just do it already."

Voldemort just barely contained a sinister chuckle. "I do not intend to kill you, Black," he answered quietly, coming to a stop right in front of the ill-kept man, getting a whiff of the horrible stench radiating out of his grey torn suit. Ignoring the smell, he took in Black's furious but also curious expression. "What gave you that impression?"

The wild-looking man offered no reply, but only stood glaring, radiating suspicion. "Is it because you fought against me in the past?" Voldemort questioned in a silky tone, moving softly over to the window to stand basking in the moonlight, giving his subject some space and some false sense of security. "Is it because you single-handedly killed 58 of my Death Eaters?"

"How would you know the exact number?" Black growled suspiciously, paling with fear.

"You kept count," Voldemort explained simply, smirking evilly over his shoulder. "You forced my hand last night, when you wouldn't speak, which is why I know more about you now than I would have otherwise." He paused and watched as Black visibly started caving under the pressure. Apparently, there were things the man was desperately trying to hide from his sight – and Voldemort had a pretty good idea of what that might be. "I know that you did not commit the murder you were imprisoned for ... I also know that you want nothing more than to avenge James Potter, your best friend, which is why your deepest wish is to see me dead," he smiled wickedly as Black righted himself, putting on a brave front.

"That's right," he growled in his raspy voice. "Peter got himself killed in that explosion, so that leaves you, Voldemort."

"Did he?" Voldemort asked simply, still smiling, letting that question hang in the air until a mystified expression stole over Black's face. A sliver of doubt; of uncertainty. "And perhaps most importantly, I also know the reason why you have been starving yourself. Why you deemed it necessary to grow thin enough to slip through the bars ... The news of Harry Potter's disappearance." Black's eyes widened with fear – and the rush that that look inspired in Voldemort made it impossible to hold back a satisfied chuckle, which didn't work against him in this stage. If anything, his laughter seemed to unnerve Black even more. "You want to see him," Voldemort announced with triumph, "to make sure he's all right. He is your godson after all."

Black stood furiously growling at him now, hunched back as if readying himself to spring at his enemy. "What do you want?" he barked.

 _Yes, Black,_ thought Voldemort gleefully, _be intrigued_. With measured steps, Voldemort glided close enough to almost touch chests with Black, and leaned in to his left ear. "I might indulge you, if you behave," he whispered softly, and Black seemed torn between wanting to back away and stay close enough to hear what he said. "You heard the prison guards gossip about the deed – how Quirrell abducted the boy from Hogwarts, and then simply ... disappeared ... What they didn't know was that Quirrell ... brought Harry ... to _me_."

At those words, Black actually backed away, fast. He scrambled backwards and came to a halt as he slammed himself against the room's wardrobe, which rattled in protest behind him. Once again, he raised an accusing finger at the Dark Lord. "You ... What did you do to him? Where is he?"

"Safe," Voldemort answered and watched Black's pained expression hungrily, enjoying himself immensely. For the second time in ten years, the first one being the night when he faced Severus Snape, he was genuinely having _fun_. "It turned out that I have use of the boy, so he is under my protection ... Do you wish to see him?"

Black's eyes were so wide they bulged outwards in their sockets. "Yes!" Black barked, turning unhinged; finally showing some of the effect the Dementors had had on his mind. "I must see him! You must let me see him!"

"Lord Voldemort takes no orders," Voldemort stated firmly, piercing Black's panting form with a deadly look. "But he can be merciful, to those who please him."

Black blinked back at him, with annoyance and incomprehension; fear and desperation; hate and hope. The span of his emotions was truly amusing. How could one feel so many dirty, weakening emotions at once? Didn't Black realise how his letting his emotions control his actions made him weak and easy to manipulate?

"What will I have to do?" Black rasped out in a quiet voice, looking as if he hated himself for uttering those words.

"Cooperate with me," Voldemort instructed in a cold, demanding voice. "Do as I say, and you will be rewarded. As a matter of fact, I am feeling generous today, so I will offer you a gift as proof of my good-will, if you accept this condition. You will do anything I say."

With a slow nod, staring at him with suspicious grey eyes filled with self-loathing, Black gave in. "If I can see Harry – and if you can prove to me that he is truly here – then I'll do as you say."

Voldemort held back a triumphant smile, and instead kept his expression impassive, just to make sure Black didn't suddenly think he had the Dark Lord all figured out. "Elf," he called out, and waited the appropriate few seconds before the small creature appeared. "Bleak, go get Wormtail for me," he ordered, and as the elf disappeared, he watched Black's expression hungrily as it contorted with an array of new emotions; excitement; wonder; disbelief; murderous intent; worry; pain; violent rage.

"Wormtail?" he rasped out. "But Peter's dead."

Voldemort simply smiled and stayed silent, just looking at Black as he started fidgeting, lost in his own dark memories of loss and betrayal. They stood in silence for over a minute, and a few times, Black looked about to say something, but once he caught sight of Voldemort's evilly amused expression, he seemed to think better of it. Then, there was a tentative knock on the door. Voldemort gestured for the door to open itself, and at once when it swung inwards and revealed the plump man on the other side, he made another gesture to make Wormtail's wand fly into his hand. "Enter," he said then, smiling sinisterly.

"My Lord?" Wormtail squeaked worriedly, but stepped into the room nonetheless, casting a frightened look behind him as the door fell shut. "You called for me?"

With a furious growl, Black threw himself at his enemy, tearing and punching, roaring furiously for his revenge. Wormtail squeaked pitifully in surprise and terror as he took the blows. "Help! My Lord! Please! Help!"

For one glorious moment, Wormtail's frantic eyes found Voldemort's, and he got to watch as the realisation that he was beyond saving dawned on the pathetic little man.

After realising that no help was coming, Wormtail transformed into a rat and scurried to find some small hole in the wall to escape through. But he didn't make it far, because Black transformed into a dog and followed, cornering him quickly.

There was a horrible squeak as Wormtail got caught in the dog's jaws.

Then, a _crunch_ sounded.

Afterwards, silence rang between the walls, and the mood turned raw and _deliciously dark_.

The silence was broken a moment later by raw, muffled sobs which sounded from the corner where Black sat shivering, back in human form.

"That is my gift to you, Black," Voldemort stated quietly, enjoying the aftermath of murder. "Enjoy."

Then, with one last smile, he replaced the Locking Charms on the door and Disapparated.


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Eleven

* * *

 _Oh no_ , Harry thought and quickly backtracked out of the dining hall, hoping that no-one had seen him. The room had been crowded with witches and wizards; a large group of them seated at the middle of the table, conversing in a friendly manner, some of them reading the _Daily Prophet_ and others merely chatting and laughing, all of them drinking from steaming cups; a smaller group of three was seated at the left end of the table, the two dark-haired wizards and the blonde witch looking tense as they too were reading through their own copies of the morning's newspaper; and lastly, at the right end of the table, in Quirrell's usual seat, sat a young, skinny wizard with long dark hair kept in a low ponytail.

 _I can't go in there_ , Harry thought with slight panic, _I'll just eat in my room instead_.

" _You will have to confront them sooner or later,"_ said his soul shard, who he had decided to call James to make things a bit clearer for himself.

After their long conversation yesterday, Harry had found that the more he spoke with 'James', the less he could think of him as _himself_. Their manners and opinions were very much the same, but also strikingly different at times, which complicated things. So, Harry had taken it upon himself to simplify; hence, James. His soul shard hadn't seemed to mind the christening, but had only seemed amused by his antics, not feeling in need of having a name at all.

 _I know_ , Harry thought and sighed, annoyed that he was suddenly wishing for Voldemort to be in the room, so that he wouldn't have to make this decision himself. Surely, if his master was there, he would be expecting Harry to be too. But as of yet this morning, Harry hadn't seen the man at all. _I just don't want a repeat of what happened at the dinner party. I don't fancy being surrounded by adults trying to smoulder me with fake affection, or trying to speak with me about the Ministry or the pocket-sized Pixy-Scope Thingamabob somebody has invented._

" _I very much doubt they will repeat that faux pas,_ " James mused with amusement. " _For one thing, they're not tipsy right now. And besides; Voldemort made his expectations quite clear. You're above them in rank, and should act like it. As long as you make them remember, they won't bother you. Remember how Voldemort told you to look confident right before he started reprimanding Malfoy? Just go out there, like you normally do, and don't make eye-contact with anyone. Just walk to your seat and start eating as if you're not bothered by them at all._ "

 _But I AM bothered_ , thought Harry with some desperation as he straightened his back and tried to steel himself. _Here goes ..._

He walked around the corner and into the Dining Room, heading down the long table towards his usual seat, doing his best to ignore the way all conversation had come to a stop at his entrance. People's curious looks burned the side of his face as he took a seat, but he managed to ignore them; completely focused on keeping his hands from shaking as he picked out some eggs and bacon from the tray in front of his seat.

As he started eating, the conversations started up again, and Harry was finally able to relax a little bit once he felt some of the heavy stares shift away from him.

" _Well done,_ " James commended him, and Harry's confidence swelled at once at the praise. His lips quirked into a small smile, and he looked up to search the table for the tea pot, and came face to face with the young man in Quirrell's seat, who sat staring quite unashamedly at him; namely, at his forehead.

Harry now saw that the man was not dressed in robes, but in an odd mixture of formalwear and casual wear; he had on a pair of tight black leather pants and a pair of black boots to match, but then he also wore a dark long-sleeved shirt with red details on it, and a worn vest on top with odd flaps where the brass buttons sat. His face had a bit of stubble, and was a bit dirty, as if he had been going up and down a chimney a couple of times; and most notably, he had a sharp red streak running down the right side of his dark brown, slightly curly hair.

"You're 'Arry Potter," he pointed out, blinking, as if he could barely believe his own eyes.

"Err, yeah," said Harry and quickly looked away, busying himself with pouring tea into his black ceramic mug. He felt how the man kept staring at him, and tried his best to ignore it.

"Whatcha 'ere for?"

Slowly, doing his best to appear confident, Harry looked up and met the man's blue gaze. "You haven't heard?"

"Just got 'ere," the man explained with a shrug. "'Aven't 'ad the time to 'ear much of anythin'."

Harry blinked, and looked down, losing his nerve. Staring down at his plate, feeling how curious eyes had started to look his way again, he murmured his answer. "I'm the Dark Lord's apprentice."

"'Is apprentice?" the man exclaimed, efficiently quenching the last of the half-hearted conversations down the table. "Blimey, that's unexpected, ain't it? And 'ere we all reckoned 'e wanted to off you."

Harry stuffed his mouth full of food to distract himself, trying to calm down. _Why isn't he leaving me alone?_

Suddenly, there was a sooty long-fingered hand thrust in his face. "Name's Scabior," the man said and grinned when Harry looked up at him and hesitantly shook his hand. "I've 'eard loads about you, of course – it'll be interestin' to see what you're really like. Couldn't be the little goodie two-shoes everyone expects if you're with 'im, now can you?"

"Right," Harry replied faintly, feeling crestfallen. _What should I do? How do I make him stop?_

" _You must be authoritarian,_ " James suggested urgently.

 _What? How?_ Harry questioned with growing anxiety.

"If only they knew," Scabior said with a breathless laugh. "Bloody ironic, it is. Don't you think? Wish I could see the look on 'Dung's face if 'e found out you've been _'ere_ all along. That soddin' idiot! Been runnin' about the whole bloody country, lookin' for you, he has."

" _Straighten up!_ " James urged. " _Make eye contact!_ "

Harry did his best to follow instructions, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of unnaturalness he got from sitting straight as a rod. That feeling, however, had nothing on the feeling of staring Scabior straight in the eye.

"I see. That's nice," he stated, feeling his throat constrict and his mouth run dry when his cold reply made Scabior's expression lose all sense of humour.

" _Question him about something!_ "

Racking his brain for something to ask, Harry thought furiously for something to say, and almost lost his chance as Scabior opened his mouth to speak. "What are you doing here?" Harry blurted, efficiently interrupting him right before he started.

"Me?" said Scabior after a short pause and shrugged, leaning back in his chair with an air of carelessness. "Got 'ere to enlist this mornin', Fowler an' I. Got to meet the Big Boss an' everythin'. 'E's upstairs, Fowler that is, greetin' 'is ol' friend Greyback; don' know if you've 'eard of 'im? Right nasty ol' werewolf, that one. I figured I could grab sometin' to eat in the meanwhile."

"So you're a Death Eater now," Harry stated, trying his best to sound confident.

"Not as simple as that, but I'll be one soon enough," Scabior assured with a wicked grin. "Got to sort out that Markin' Ceremony first, but then I'll be a proper one, yeah, for sure."

Harry tried desperately to come up with another question to ask, when mercifully, there was a sudden sharp _whistle_ from the doorway. As one, all heads turned to look at the source of the disruption, taking in the sight of the lanky shape of a man who stood there. He looked about fifty, with thinning brown hair and a pair of sunken, dark eyes and was, just like Scabior, dressed in an oddly miss-matched garb and covered in soot.

"Scabior!" he called out in a raspy voice. "Time to scram – quit dilly-dallyin'."

"Right, Fowler; no rest for the wicked, eh?" Scabior answered and scrambled to his feet, lifting an imaginary hat Harry's way in farewell. "Catch you later, Potter."

Everyone at the table sat in silence, watching the pair leave, some sporting highly affronted expressions, as if the men were misbehaving in some way. Harry, for his part, was infinitely relieved to finally be left alone. He listened with half an ear as the conversations around the table picked up again, accompanied to the gentle _clinking_ of silverware on porcelain platters, as well as the rustle of newspapers.

As he took a gentle sip of his steaming hot tea, Harry noticed that Scabior had left his own _Daily Prophet_ neatly folded next to his empty platter. Out of curiosity, he picked it up and started to leaf through it. At once, bold headlines screamed out to him, competing valiantly for his attention.

 _\- NEW LEADS ON THE AZKABAN BREAKOUT; AURORS CONVINCED IT WAS AN INSIDE JOB_

 _\- THE SEARCH FOR HARRY POTTER AT AN END; MEMORIAL CEREMONY TO BE HELD_

 _\- HOGWARTS BOARD OF GOVERNORS HENCEFORTH TO TAKE CHARGE OF THE EMPLOYMENT OF TEACHERS; 'WE REFUSE TO HAVE ANOTHER QUIRINUS QUIRRELL FIASCO' – LUCIUS MALFOY_

 _\- MORE AND MORE CHILDREN SICKEN IN DRAGON POX; ST. MUNGOS CAUTIONS PARENTS_

 _\- ON ALBUS DUMBLEDORE'S PUBLIC ATTEMPT TO CONVINCE THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC THAT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED HAS RISEN FROM THE DEAD; HAS HE BEEN CURSED, OR HAS HE SIMPLY GROWN SENILE?_

Harry frowned darkly at the unfairness of the last headline – if only they knew. Putting aside his annoyance for Professor Dumbledore's sake, his eyes jumped up to the part of the page that screamed out his own name. _A memorial ceremony, huh,_ he thought darkly. _I guess they've given up on me, then._

" _They were bound to, sooner or later,_ " said James carefully, possibly trying to comfort him. " _It's been eleven days by now, and there's been no sign of you. You can't really fault them for that; they've got their own lives to get back to. The Aurors will probably keep looking since it doesn't say that the case is closed, but the public needs to move on."_

 _I guess that's true_ , thought Harry, trying to see the logical side of it; but his chest still stung with betrayal. He would have thought that at least some of his friends, or his professors, would keep looking for him. Somewhere deep down, he had still been hoping that he could be saved. Now, it appeared that the only way for him to escape this place was to do it himself.

" _Are you sure that you really want to, though?_ " James inquired softly. " _You have a place here now; it could be a home to you._ "

 _Yes, I'm sure_ , thought Harry furiously, clenching his hands into fists so that the frail paper crumpled at the corners. _I don't want to stay here with HIM!_

" _Why not?_ " challenged James carefully. " _You're taken care of; you get to learn things; you have a high position_."

 _I don't care about any of that_ , he defended heatedly, _I can't just conveniently forget that Voldemort is EVIL._

" _Evil how, exactly?_ " asked James. " _You keep saying that, by why do you think so?_ "

Harry huffed in annoyance at having to explain something so simple to a part of himself. _It's obvious, isn't it? He kills people, and tortures them, and tries to start a war to take over the Wizarding World._

There was a pause. Then; " _I don't see how those things necessarily make him evil. He has his reasons for killing people, and he only uses torture to punish followers who misbehave._ "

 _But his reasons for killing people are selfish,_ Harry argued, _doesn't that alone make him evil?_

" _I don't think so,_ " James claimed. " _He has explained to you already that he had no other choice than to kill Mr Bryce, to protect himself and you. That might sound selfish, but I don't really see it that way – he's a leader who's trying to change the world for the better. His resources are limited, and he has had to do a lot of things to get back to health, but he doesn't do it just for his own sake."_

 _Isn't it evil to kill someone just to save yourself?_

James fell silent for a little while again, before replying. " _What I'm saying is that he's not doing it just for himself ... Look at it this way; would you think a mother is evil if she let other people starve while she eats a lot of food, so that she can be healthy and breastfeed her children that way?_ "

Harry hesitated. _Not evil, I guess ... but it's not nice._

" _I never claimed Voldemort was nice._ "

 _I guess_ , thought Harry, frowning, _but that doesn't mean I want to stay with him ... he killed Mum and Dad ..._

James fell silent at that, and Harry felt a foreign sadness coming from him at the mention of their parents. " _I know ... but it was war ... they were on opposite sides, and ... I get these odd glimpses now and then. Voldemort is ... confused. He doesn't fully understand why he was so obsessed with killing you. He got wind of a prophesy, saying that you would be the one to have the power to kill him, but he hadn't ever really believed in Divination before that point."_

 _A prophesy_? Harry frowned. _Like, telling the future?_

" _Yes_ ," said James simply.

 _So that's why,_ thought Harry with new understanding. _But Voldemort doesn't usually believe in them? Was it all a mistake, then?_

" _He doesn't know_ ," James said slowly, as if trying to discern the answer at the same time as he spoke. " _And it bothers him_."

They fell into silence, and as Harry sat there, picking at his food, the company in the middle of the table arose and trickled out of the room, lead by a crooked old man with thick round glasses on the edge of his pointy nose. Trying not to look their way, Harry focused on his cold breakfast, eating with a growing sense of accomplishment. He had got through this, on his own, and it hadn't ended in catastrophe. That, at least, had to be worth something.

" _You've done well,_ " James praised. " _If you keep this up, you'll fit in in no time."_

 _I told you,_ Harry insisted as he arose from the table and made to head outside, gingerly ignoring the two wizards and the witch who sat watching as he left. _I don't want to stay here. I don't care if I fit in or not._

" _Are you really sure?_ " questioned James with some disbelief. " _What do you think would happen if you actually did escape? You'd just be going back to the Dursleys._ "

Harry faltered in his step, imagining with dread what it would be like to return to his aunt and uncle. With quite some reluctance, he admitted to himself that that would be even worse than being stuck with Voldemort had turned out to be.

After thinking that treacherous thought, Harry blanched and decided firmly to think about something else. Dead set on finding something to occupy him, Harry put his hand on the doorknob to head outside, but was interrupted by a sudden _pop_ behind his back.

"Mr Harry Potter, sir," a squeaky voice called out, and turning around, Harry saw that it was Bleak. "Master has requested you comes to him now. Bleak will takes Mr Potter to him."

 _Well, at least that's a distraction_ , thought Harry dryly and followed the little elf upstairs and down the corridor of the first floor. Arriving outside a door that, as Harry recalled vaguely, led into a study, Bleak stopped. She timidly knocked three times, and of its own volition, the door slid open, admitting them into the room.

Bleak hurried forwards, and Harry slowly followed, his eyes instantly zooming in on Voldemort when he came into view; standing to the left side of the room, looking out through one of the tall windows at the billowing ocean.

"Is there something else master wants Bleak to do, master?"

"No," said Voldemort quietly, turning around right before the door _clicked_ shut behind Harry's back. After Bleak had bowed deeply and _popped_ away, Voldemort gestured for him to come closer. "Have you come to terms with ... your second self?"

"Yes, master," Harry said quietly and came closer, wondering why he had been asked for.

"Very good," said Voldemort with a short smile as he reached into one deep robe pocket and picked out his wand. "Do you know what the differences are between Transfiguration and Conjuration?"

Harry watched as Voldemort conjured two chairs out of thin air and sat down in one of them. "That was Conjuration," he then said before sitting down as well, "because you created the chairs from nothing. When you Transfigure, you have to have something from the start ... You have to change something into something else."

"Indeed," said Voldemort with another smile. "What are their advantages and disadvantages?"

"Err, do you mean, why is one better than the other?"

"And vice versa," Voldemort said, tilting his head slightly. "Why would you chose to Conjure chairs rather than Transfiguring them?"

Harry racked his brain for a good answer, but couldn't remember Professor McGonagall ever lecturing his class on something like that. "I don't know, master."

"Like you said; when you Transfigure an object," Voldemort explained, "you need to have something to start with. This object is, preferably, of the same size and material as the object you are going to change it into. Say, for example, that you have a stump that you want to make into a chair. That is simple and will cost very little Mana. However, if you only have a pebble, it will take a lot more Mana to produce that same chair. Moreover, unless you have a good material to start with, the finished product will be in poor shape. A chair made out of a pebble, for example, would break the moment someone tried to sit on it."

"All right, so it's better to Conjure a chair if you don't have something good to Transfigure it from?" Harry reasoned.

"Precisely," Voldemort said, "however, Conjurations have their disadvantages as well. For one thing, creating something out of nothing takes a lot more Mana; something that limits most wizards in their spell casting. Additionally, Conjuration depends on precise casting – if it is not up to par, nothing at all will happen. Transfiguration, however, will allow for the caster to transform the object even if the casting is poor. What have you Transfigured in class so far?"

"Err, it was ... a match into a needle, a mouse into a snuffbox –"

"– Yes that will work nicely," Voldemort interrupted and swished his wand, producing a tiny matchstick, holding it up for Harry to see. "Now, I Conjured this. Will this affect the Transfiguration in any way?"

Harry thought about it, frowning. "No, right?"

"No," Voldemort confirmed. "As you can see, the match is of an almost exact size of a needle, which will allow for a fairly simple Transfiguration. Watch."

Flicking his wand over the match, Voldemort intoned " _Aschusverto_ ", quite obviously mispronouncing the "Acus" part of the incantation. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the match changed colour into steel grey and split in the middle, creating a rugged little eye.

"As you can see," Voldemort explained, holding the object up for Harry to inspect more closely, "my faulty spell casting resulted in a slight but unsatisfactory change. However –" He flicked his wand to the side and said " _Ahavis_ ". Nothing happened. Next, he turned his wand to the half-matchstick half-needle and said " _Evanesco_ ". At once, the object vanished into thin air. "What did I just do?"

Harry blinked, knowing the answer, but hesitating because it sounded too simple. "Err, well you vanished it."

"Yes, so what happened to it?"

Harry hesitated again. "It disappeared?"

"Disappeared where?"

"Where?" Harry repeated dully, feeling confused. "I don't know."

"Do you think it was banished to another place anywhere in the universe, or do you think it simply ceased to exist?" Voldemort asked with amusement dancing in his eyes.

"I'm not sure," Harry said warily. "It could be either one."

"No, there is only one right answer," Voldemort contradicted with a smile. "And we might find our answer through asking yet another question. Can I make it come back?"

"No, I don't think so," Harry muttered, trying, and failing, to think of a time when he had seen someone vanishing an object and then making it come back again.

"You are correct," Voldemort stated with a nod. "I can recreate the same shape," he then said, flicking his wand and making the half-match half-needle appear, hovering in front of Harry's face, "but it is not the same – it is a completely new object, which proves that Vanishing something completely erases its existence. Do you have any questions?"

"No, master," Harry said, "everything's clear so far."

Voldemort gave another smile before heading into another array of questions. "If a wizard can Conjure or Transfigure an object – how come he has to buy or gather, for example, Potions ingredients? Why can't he simply create them?"

"I don't know, master."

"Surely, it is entirely possible to swish one's wand and conjure, say, a belladonna plant?"

"... I guess?"

"So why go through the trouble of acquiring a belladonna plant through other means?"

"Maybe it won't work?"

A pleased glint appeared in Voldemort's red eyes, and he leaned forwards in his chair. "Why wouldn't it work?"

"I don't know," Harry said, starting to get fed up with this guessing game. "Maybe it just wouldn't work right with the potion."

"That is correct," Voldemort allowed before switching into lecture-mode. "I have previously told you about Mana – now, there are, to simplify, two types of Mana; natural and magical. Natural Mana is what flows in plants, in rocks, in animals and humans – it is a sense of _naturalness_ coming from something being produced without any magical manipulation. Magical Mana, however, is what wizards have and use to perform magic. Hence, whenever something has been manipulated by magic, it will be held together by magical Mana. Do you understand this? It might be a bit complex."

"Yeah, if there are two kinds of Mana," Harry said carefully, "and wizards have the magical kind ... shouldn't they have the natural kind as well, since they are humans?"

"Exactly," said Voldemort.

"All right, then I think I understand," said Harry, receiving a pleased smile from his master.

"Very good ... So, you could Conjure a belladonna plant, but, like you concluded, it would not work for potions, and that is because it would lack natural Mana. Similarly, you know that I asked Quirrell to gather toads for me – the reason being that I needed _true_ animals with natural Mana for the use I wanted to make of them. Moreover, while Conjuring or Transfiguring animals is possible, it is not very useful a practice. Do you know why?"

"No, master," Harry replied and watched as Voldemort waved his wand in a highly intricate pattern and intoned " _Avis_ ". A jet black raven materialised and took to the air, zooming about the room before perching on the backrest of the chair behind Voldemort's desk.

"Look at its eyes," Voldemort instructed, and Harry did so, squinting his eyes to try to peer into the bird's black orbs. "That is not a living being," Voldemort said, and watching the animal stare blindly into the wall, Harry instantly understood what he meant. "A wizard can create flesh and bone, and he can animate it to assimilate life, but he cannot _create_ life. He cannot Conjure a soul. However –"

Voldemort swished his wand again, in a far less complex pattern, and said " _Avisortia_ ". Out of the tip of his wand flew another bird, identical to the first one, but otherwise quite obviously different from it. Looking into its eyes, Harry could instantly tell that this animal was very much alive.

"It is possible to _Summon_ a living animal, like so," Voldemort concluded. "As long as the animal you want to Summon is in close proximity, the spell will search it out and Apparate it for you. Thus, a Summoning Spell is always split into two parts; search and transport. It is, of course, very simple to reverse the spell and Banish the animal you have summoned," Voldemort finished and flicked his wand at the living raven, which was currently seated on the top of the desk, picking at the quills. In an instant, it disappeared, leaving its hollow-eyed cousin behind.

"This is very much to be preferred to Vanishing a Summoned animal, since it is infused with natural Mana. This Conjured animal, however, only has magical Mana, and is thus very simple to Vanish. Vanishing something with natural Mana is immensely more difficult, not only because it takes a lot more power, but also because the amount of Mana used needs to be very precise to work. Thus, the Vanishing Spell has potential to be one of the most difficult spells to master, even though, with a simple target, the spell might also be one of the simplest."

Aiming his wand at the staring raven, Voldemort intoned " _Evanesco_ ", and at once, it completely vanished. Next, he stretched out his left hand to his desk, making one of the mistreated quills zoom into it, before handing it over to Harry. "You will practice on this. Are you familiar with the wand movement?"

* * *

For what seemed like the thousandth time that day, Severus slowed his breathing and forcefully cleared his mind. Then, he turned on the spot and Apparated to the gates of Malfoy Manor. The handsome manor at the end of the gravel driveway was glowing with soft candlelight radiating out of the diamond-panned windows. Relaxing the tiniest bit at the sight of the familiar house, Severus walked through the wrought-iron gates, instantly recognised by the wards, and up the road to the front door. It swung open for him on its own accord, spelled to do so for expected guests, and at once after passing the threshold, Severus was greeted by his closest friend.

"Severus," Lucius said with a smile that softened his usually very stern-looking face. "Thank Merlin – I was hoping it'd be you. Come, let's make ourselves comfortable. It has been a very trying couple of days ... Ministry's in a horrible state."

"I can imagine," Severus said with an answering smile, following Lucius' black-clad form as he crossed the vast hallway and moved towards the ground floor parlour. "The Minister is throwing all sorts of accusations around, I hear," he mentioned casually, thinking of Dumbledore's resigned expression as he mentioned Fudge's hostility during the Order meeting earlier that day.

Lucius chuckled darkly as he stepped into the spacious parlour, leading the way to a pale blue and gold sitting group in French Empire style. "Oh, our _dear_ Minister is quite distraught. I swear, when I first caught sight of his wretched appearance Monday morning, I almost mistook him for Arthur Weasley. Wine?" Lucius questioned, standing at the heavily stocked liquor cabinet, looking over his shoulder at Severus with a bottle of wine in his hands.

"Please," Severus answered and sat down in his favourite bergère, both having the advantage of being closest to the crackling fireplace and having a clear view of the doorway. "I could use a drink."

The wine bottle was uncorked with a suckling _pop_ , and shortly thereafter, a light _clink_ and a pouring sound was heard. "At least, watching Fudge chase Dumbledore out of the Ministry provided some entertainment ... But overall; it's been chaos. Of course, a bit of a stir is to be expected after such an event," Lucius allowed as he crossed the room, delicately handed one of the elegant glasses over to his guest, and then sat down in the lavish sofa. "But to bow down to such mindless hysteria ... Where is the dignity, I say?" Keeping eye contact with Severus, he took a slow swig of his drink.

"Sadly, such behaviour is to be expected from the riffraff the Ministry employs nowadays. They hardly have the presence of mind to tackle this kind of situation logically. I would know – I unfortunately attempted to educate them," Severus said with a sneer, taking a sip of wine as well. _Superior Red_ , he realised at once – Lucius' favourite.

His expression startled another laugh out of Lucius. "A tedious task, I'm sure. Yes, I would have to agree that many of the younger talents at the Ministry distinctly lacks," he chuckled with glittering grey eyes," talent. But I would not claim that the older generation is any better in that department. It is a marvel how many believe this was an inside job, conducted by poor Miss Odelia Thorn. But then again, that rumour doesn't hold a candle to the theory that Quirinus Quirrell – infamous kidnapper and 'murderer' of poor little Harry Potter – lies behind the breakout."

Severus sneered in disgust. "Quirrell? I am appalled at the mere suggestion. He has been teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts for over a decade – surely, his mediocrity must have been apparent to the poor souls that suffered under his tutelage?"

"They might be in denial," Lucius offered with a smirk, "people are desperate for an answer to the riddle of Potter's disappearance after all."

"Indeed," Severus answered quietly and took another sip from his drink.

"I was surprised," Lucius declared after a moment's silence, "that you were not present at the meeting last Sunday. Otherwise occupied?"

Severus tensed and didn't bother to hide the worry that started to seep out of his pores after that comment. Lucius leaned forwards in his seat at once, studying his expression with intrigue. "I was summoned by the Dark Lord a couple of days past," he confessed tensely. "And he was ... far from impressed with my loyalty."

"Truly?" Lucius breathed out in incomprehension. "After all those years at Dumbledore's side? Why would he have reason to doubt you?"

Severus smiled at his friend, amused by his gullible trust, and strangely moved. His own deceit burned sour on his tongue by contrast. "Before the Dark Lord's fall, I had asked him for a reward for my service as a spy."

"Lily's life, yes," Lucius said in a hushed tone, "I remember. You were inconsolable for months ..."

"I hated him for taking her away from me," he confessed, receiving an understanding look from his friend.

"And the Dark Lord recognised that," he stated, leaning back against the backrest of the sofa again and taking another sip of wine.

"Indeed," Severus answered tensely. "He is ... very sharp of mind, now. Compared to how he acted in our youth, he's not at all as ..."

"... insane?" Lucius supplied with a weary smile.

"... yes," Severus said, carefully hiding any sign of the suspicion his friend's comment had inspired. _He couldn't know, could he? No, that was impossible. Was his loyalty wavering?_ "He picked up on my resentment at once, and nearly had me killed ... but he refrained."

"Obviously," Lucius said with a hint of humour.

"Indeed ... The Dark Lord did not make his plans for me clear," Severus continued. "However, his decision to exclude me from this first mission alludes to his continued mistrust."

Lucius looked thoughtful, and they both sank into a contemplating silence, slowly drinking their wine. Once Lucius had finished his glass, his pale eyes flickered over to Severus, shining with cold determination. "I was ... startled to learn of the Dark Lord's return. I was unaware that he had such power and, I must confess ... in the aftermath of the war, and after my narrow escape from prison, I started to doubt ... I did indeed find that many of his decisions had been ... rash, and had pointed towards a sort of insanity. It complicated matters. I have, just like you have, found that the Dark Lord shows signs of a far superior intellect now ... but I am yet unconvinced that it will remain so. Indeed, did not the Dark Lord start his campaign as a young, handsome man with unchallenged charisma? And yet, he deteriorated into ... an almost inhuman state before his fall. I had not planned on voicing these opinions, of course, since I was convinced that the war was over. And yet ..."

Severus listened attentively to his friend, feeling a sting of remorse for keeping him out of the loop. _This, at least, proves that he indeed is unaware of the cause of the Dark Lord's insanity_.

"Your doubts are completely understandable," he answered soothingly, making Lucius visibly deflate with relief. "But, like you said, the Dark Lord seems to be ... completely lucid at the moment."

With a stark urgency burning in his eyes, Lucius leaned forwards and started speaking in a hushed tone. "I have taken some precautions, just to learn more and make sure to be made aware the moment his sanity starts to slip – if it ever does. But as it happens, it will only be made possible with your help."

Not very much liking the sound of that, but still feeling intrigued, Severus leaned forwards in his seat as well.

"A few days ago," Lucius continued, "the Dark Lord asked for a couple of donations from me and his other allied families. Amongst the matters requested were house-elves, and I made sure to send one of my own into the mix – one that has proven to be ... uncommonly spirited; prone to following its own orders."

"Dobby," Severus concluded tightly, carefully concealing his thundering excitement. _This was almost too perfect to be true. That the elf would have the opportunity to do anything at all to help Severus had been a long shot – but if he was indeed stationed at the Dark Lord's stronghold ..._

"Naturally, I had to sever his bonds with me and my family, however ... I did not sever his bond with you. I do not believe that the Dark Lord is aware that you are extended family. This will, of course allow you to –"

"– keep contact with the elf. To learn what the Dark Lord is planning," Severus filled in.

"And report back to me," Lucius concluded, righting himself with a regal look.

"Of course," Severus agreed with a short nod, sharing a short smile with his friend, who looked about to suggest another glass of wine. But then, they were interrupted by the door sliding open.

"Father, when is Mother coming back?"

Looking over at the doorway, Severus saw his godson stand there, his arms crossed and with a bored expression on his face. Once he caught sight of Severus, however, his expression switched to excitement.

"Professor," he exclaimed and walked further into the room, brushing off invisible lint from his impeccable navy blue robes, "I didn't know you'd come. Are you staying for dinner?"

"Draco," Lucius reprimanded firmly, halting the teen in his tracks, "you do not simply barge into a room unannounced like some bumbling Muggle-loving Weasley."

At once, Draco's face went pink with anger. "I didn't know anyone was here," he defended hotly, glaring darkly at his father, who returned the glare tenfold.

"The more important to knock," Lucius hissed. "I do not think you would have liked to barge in on the Dark Lord for instance, if it had been he and not your godfather who was visiting. I would have thought Sunday night taught you better than this."

At those words, Draco's glare faltered, and he actually looked ashamed; an expression Severus had very rarely seen on that particular boy's face. "I apologise, Father. I will correct my behaviour."

"Sunday night?" Severus questioned with raised eyebrows, efficiently breaking the tense moment as Lucius stopped glaring and turned to look at him instead.

"The Dark Lord's dinner party," his friend explained and sighed heavily. Carefully, Draco treaded closer and sat down in the bergère closest to the door. "Father insisted on bringing Draco ... To present him to the Dark Lord, and flaunt him in front of the other families."

Severus couldn't help but sneer. "And you agreed to this?"

"Father is still Head of the family," Lucius defended carefully, sneering as well. "I couldn't very well oppose his decision ... however ill-versed I deemed it."

"I did all right," Draco muttered sullenly to himself, lounging in his plush seat with his arms crossed. "If it weren't for _Potter_ , I would have –"

"Potter?" Severus echoed, trying very hard to school his expression so that he didn't seem overly relieved by the news. "The Dark Lord alluded to having Potter in his possession, but it was impossible to tell whether he was sincere or not."

Before Lucius could respond, Draco piped up. "He's the Dark Lord's apprentice, Professor." Severus blanched. "He's strutting around the Dark Lord's fortress as if he owns it –"

" _Draco_!" Lucius snapped furiously, arising from his seat in his anger. "That is enough! How many times do I have to reprimand you? Was the Dark Lord's public display not enough punishment for you? How _dare_ you persist in this? You know what I think of your little rivalry with Potter; put an end to it!"

"But it wasn't my fault!" screeched Draco and flew to his feet as well. "Potter's the one who attacked _me_!"

"TO YOUR ROOM!" roared Lucius with furiousness Severus had only very rarely seen his friend display before; whatever happened with Draco and the Dark Lord must have truly scared him. Indeed, if Severus judged the situation correctly, Draco might have been inches away from being tortured.

Draco didn't seem to recognise his father's fear, however, and sent him a last hateful glare before stomping out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

In the lingering silence following Draco's hasty departure, Severus allowed himself to react to the new revelations. _Potter was not kept prisoner, but had been chosen as the Dark Lord's apprentice._ To Severus' utmost outrage, he did not have a Possible Scenario prepared for this particular outcome.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twelve

* * *

Despite the late hour, Harry felt wide awake as he trailed behind Voldemort's tall dark shape, moving like a shadow through the slim windowless corridor. The candles on the stone wall lit up the side of his face, making him look eerie and more unapproachable than Harry was used to.

They came to a stop in front of the door leading into the guest room Harry had slept in before moving into the tower. He looked up at his master's stern face, growing worried. Had Voldemort changed his mind? Had Harry done something to displease him? Did he want Harry to move back into this room and stop being his apprentice?

"I need you to be very careful when we enter this room, Harry," Voldemort said in a quiet, emotionless voice that gave him the creeps. "One of the prisoners has requested to see you."

"What?" he breathed out, barely having the time to get relieved that he hadn't displeased Voldemort after all, before the panic settled in. "Why me?"

"He was connected to your parents before his capture," answered Voldemort vaguely, leaning down and placing a hand onto his left shoulder. "After their death, he went on a wild frenzy, and was eventually imprisoned for the murder of twelve Muggles."

Harry gulped. Why was Voldemort letting a murderer see him? Why didn't he just refuse?

"Of course, during the war, he killed far more people than that ... When we enter, you need to stay alert; one of his many talents is to transform into a great black dog. Do not speak with him, or reply to his questions, just stand where he can see you ... Don't worry," Voldemort said in a softer tone, rubbing his thumb encouragingly against Harry's collarbone, "I will not let him near you."

Feeling a little better, encouraged by the fact that Voldemort would be there, Harry let out a short puff of air and nodded once. "Yes, master."

After keeping eye contact for a few heartbeats, as if making sure that he was up to the task, Voldemort took away his warm touch as he straightened and turned towards the door. While his master started dispelling something that Harry guessed had to be locking spells on the door, he moved to stand behind his back, just in case the prisoner decided to jump at them the moment the door fell open.

With great anticipation, Harry listened as the lock _clicked_ before a _creak_ signalled that Voldemort had opened the door. Slowly, Voldemort travelled into the room, and hesitantly, Harry followed. From the deep darkness came a rumbling growl, and instantly getting flashbacks from his first meeting with the three-headed dog at Hogwarts, Harry felt his heart start to slam punishingly against his ribcage.

"Now, now Black; mind your manners," Voldemort said in a calm tone, that almost sounded teasing. Soft light filled the room as Voldemort made a sweeping movement with his left hand, making the candles light up on the walls, and as the bed's shadow stole over the stone floor, Harry caught sight of a shaggy four-legged shape on top of it.

Voldemort shook his head and made tut-tuts of disapproval, and to Harry's dismay, stepped further into the room. He slowly trailed behind, and winced with worry as he heard the door slam shut behind his back once they had come to a stop on the lavish Persian rug in front of the bed's foot end.

"Why such unbecoming hostility, Black? Have I not been a gracious host?" Voldemort questioned in a quiet voice. "Have you found fault with your accommodations? Or, perhaps, are you second-guessing our agreement?" His voice grew ice cold. "Did you not enjoy your gift?"

There came a sudden snarled bark from the bed, and watching the hunched shadow, Harry saw its maws part and show off a row of sharp teeth. Stray memories of Aunt Marge's bulldog Ripper, who had once chased him up a tree and let his sit there all day, flitted through his mind, seeing that.

"No?" Voldemort said, sounding almost saddened. "What a shame. And I was so looking forward to working out our differences ..."

Voldemort's left arm swooped down behind Harry's back, and pushed him forwards, so that he was forced to step into the light and face the ferocious murderer. What he saw was a shaggy black dog with extremely dirty fur, thin as a rake, and with a maw full of yellowing teeth, looking at him at first with hostility, then surprise, and lastly excitement. The tail, which had stood bolt upright, went between its legs, before it relaxed some, twitching a little from side to side. Harry looked into its slate grey eyes and repressed a shiver, inching a tiny bit closer to Voldemort, just in case it decided to lunge at him.

Whining, the dog slipped off the side of the bed and curled up, before suddenly starting to grow in size at an extremely quick pace – transforming into the shape of a grown man. With wide eyes, Harry watched his skeletal-thin body morph, losing the fur and instead gaining a set of extremely dirty grey rags. The hair on top of his head grew into a tangled mess that fell all the way down to his elbows, and down his face, a coarse black beard grew down to his chest. The transformation had been over in a matter of seconds; Harry felt as if he had blinked once, and all of a sudden, a man stood in the same place where the dog had been, grinning at him. If eyes hadn't been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull.

"Harry," he croaked, wide-eyed, slowly inching forwards, "you look so much like James –"

"That is close enough, Black," Voldemort warned quietly, making the murderer halt and shoot a fearful look at Harry's master, who had his wand aimed straight at him.

After shifting backwards the tiniest bit, Black looked back at Harry, his gaze roaming over his body, pausing on three spots; on his scar, on his eyes, and on his left shoulder, where Voldemort's hand still rested. "So much like James," he rasped out then, in a weak voice that seemed hoarse from lack of use. "But you have Lily's eyes." A small smile graced his lips, which made Harry wonder what kind of 'connection' this man had actually had to his parents, before Black turned back to look at Voldemort. "What have you done to him?"

"Done?" Voldemort repeated in an amused tone. "Is that supposed to insinuate that I have in some way been negligent in my care? What do you think, Harry? Have I ever, for example, failed to feed you?"

Startled, having thought that he was supposed to stay silent, Harry looked up at Voldemort, and realised that he hadn't been told not to speak with _him_. "No, master," he replied, seeing in the corner of his eye how Black stumbled backwards at his use of the honorific.

"And have I neglected to clothe you?"

"No, master," Harry replied quietly, feeling Black's disapproving eyes burn into the side of his face.

"And have you always, since coming here, had a bed to sleep in and a bathroom to wash up in at your disposal?"

"Yes, master."

"See, Black," Voldemort said firmly, looking away from Harry and back at the murderer, "I do not see what Harry would have to complain about. Honestly, I find your accusation insulting."

Carefully, Harry looked back at Black, and was met with a deeply crushed expression. "Why are you calling him 'master', Harry?"

Harry just looked back at the man, growing a bit annoyed by the stark disappointment he radiated, as if he was ashamed that Harry would do such a thing. He wanted to tell the man to mind his own business, that he didn't know anything about him and shouldn't jump to conclusions, but he kept his mouth firmly shut, knowing that Voldemort wouldn't be happy with him if he spoke. So he settled for just glaring back at the man, who looked quite unnerved by his silence.

To his right, Voldemort chuckled ominously. "Then, how would _you_ have Lord Voldemort's apprentice address his master, Black?"

"Apprentice!?" Black exclaimed in wild outrage, staring at Voldemort with a mixture of disbelief and deep disgust.

"Would you have preferred 'Professor'?" Voldemort kept on, voice laced with dark amusement. "'Dom'? Or, perhaps, 'my lord'?"

Black had grown quite pale, making him look more like a corpse than ever, and he shook his head at Voldemort with a stunned expression. "No! No!" he croaked out.

"Very well, then," answered Voldemort lightly, "I fail to see what problem you should have with Harry's etiquette. I will ask you to refrain from shaming him for his good behaviour in the future."

At first, Black simply stood gaping, looking akin to a fish as he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly. Then, a dark fury sparkled alive in the depths of his eyes, and he crouched his back to show his hostility, as if half-way back into his dog form. "This has nothing to do with _etiquette_ , Voldemort! Don't you try to make it out to be – just look at him! What have you done? What could you possibly have said to him to make him this twisted – this weak!? Harry –" he exclaimed after his tirade, snapping his attention back onto him, looking less furious and more intent, "– I don't know what he has been telling you. But this ... this _monster_ , he's the _bad guy_! He murdered Lily and James! He tried to murder you too!"

Next, two things happened in a very quick succession; first, Black charged forwards, as if trying to forcibly snatch Harry out of Voldemort's hold; then, Voldemort made a violent jab with his wand, and Black fell down to the floor at Harry's feet with a horrible scream. With terror, Harry looked down at the man, who was curling in on himself, pressing his eyes firmly shut and clutching at his head in desperation, while uttering the most terrible howls Harry had ever heard.

After what seemed like an eternity, Voldemort lowered his wand, and the screams stopped. Drawing in a deep breath, feeling a bit faint, Harry looked down at Black with sympathy, where he lay, curled on his side and still holding his eyes firmly closed.

He startled a little when he felt Voldemort's hand leave his shoulder, having forgotten that it had rested there the entire time, and he watched his master take a step closer to Black and bend down in front of him. "Do not, _ever_ ," he bit out in a quiet but furious voice, "call my apprentice _twisted_ or _weak_ ever again, or I promise you quite surely, Black, that I _will_ kill you."

Harry blinked, realising with quite some confusion, that Voldemort was defending _him_ , not himself. That he had stopped Black, as promised, from getting near him; and that the torture had been in punishment for calling Harry bad things. It was a strange notion, and it made him feel odd.

Slowly, Voldemort looked over his shoulder at Harry. "I think this is quite enough for tonight, Harry. I shall not keep you out of bed any longer."

Noticing the dismissal in his tone, Harry nodded shortly and started to walk towards the door. "Good night," he said quietly.

"Good night," Voldemort answered, and as he opened up the door and slipped outside, he heard Black's muffled sobs call out to him like the wining of a lost, abandoned puppy.

* * *

Quirinus looked up at his lord, sitting behind his desk with a deeply satisfied expression on his face, seemingly lost in remembrance of something pleasant. All through his report on the progress of their alliance with the trolls, his lord had looked like that, and Quirinus started to question whether he had been listened to at all.

"Th-th-that is a-a-all, my l-l-l-lord," he concluded, nervously fiddling with the left sleeve of his purple robes, jumping a little when the Dark Lord's eerily red eyes finally looked back at him.

"Very good, Quirrell," he said in a silk-soft voice, "I am pleased by your progress. Just make sure to teach them all the proper use of a Portkey."

"Y-yes, my lord," Quirinus answered, swelling a little at the praise. "Of course. I-I'll make sure to include that during my n-next visit."

A peculiar smile graced his lord's lips, and his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. "I find myself very much preferring your company when you are not flustered and nervous enough to trip over you own words," he said, contradictorily making Quirinus flush, although not with embarrassment, but with relief. "As my currently most valued Death Eater, it would gladden me to see this sort of behaviour continue."

"Y-y-your _most_ valued Death Eater, m-m-my lord?" he couldn't help but ask, with quite some disbelief. "W-what about ... Wormtail, for example. Surely –"

The Dark Lord's disbelieving chuckle startled Quirinus into silence, and his flush promptly darkened; this time, it _was_ from embarrassment. "Wormtail?" his lord asked with dark humour dancing in his eyes. "Why on earth would that treacherous rat be even close to having the same amount of worth to me as you? The most use I could make of him was offering his as bait on a fishing hook for one of my potential allies, who swallowed him quite readily I might add. Hook, line and sinker."

Quirinus felt his eyes widen, and his stomach started to churn with triumph, before awareness came crashing down, and he at once felt disgusted with himself. "My l-l-lord?" he stuttered, feeling unnerved by the gleam in his eyes. "Are you ... D-d-do you mean th-th- ... is he d-d-d-d-dead?"

The Dark Lord's smile widened, and Quirinus felt sick. "The most service he ever did me was in death. He was not at all like you, Quirrell, who has stayed infallibly loyal despite all your struggles." The Dark Lord arose from his seat and walked slowly closer to Quirinus' taut form. "Lord Voldemort will always punish failure and negligence, Quirrell. However, he will also praise and reward loyalty and diligence." His lord stood uncomfortably close now, and his eyes danced with mirth as he leaned even closer, whispering. "If there is anything you want, any way in which I can show my appreciation, just ask."

And then, the Dark Lord moved away, slowly striding across the room to stand at what seemed to be his favourite spot in the study; at one of the tall windows in the left side of the room, looking out at the billowing ocean. Quirinus struggled to regain his breath, stuck on the notion that Wormtail – who had become sort of a rival to him – was suddenly just ... dead.

He felt sick when he thought of how he had acted around the man – filled up with jealousy and anger, inspiring him to taunt and challenge the man, even though, it was safe to say that Wormtail had challenged him first. But that didn't excuse his own behaviour – how he'd itched to prove himself _better_ than him. "Th-th-th-thank you, m-m-my lord," he said quietly, hoping desperately to be dismissed. "I will th-th-think on it."

"You do that," the Dark Lord replied, not looking back at him or acknowledging him in any other way after that, so Quirinus took it as a dismissal and hurriedly slipped out the door, as silently as he was able. His trip downstairs to his own room was a blur of self-doubt and anxiety. Once he reached his quarters, he hurried to close and lock the door, leaning heavily against it before sinking down to the floor clutching at his head.

 _What am I doing?_

Thinking back, he recognised things about himself that he hadn't thought of before; how he had cowered in fear under his lord's violent reprimands; how he had wished to do better, to rise above his patheticness and stand tall; how he had done his best to please his lord, and be useful to him to avoid abuse; how he had turned a blind eye to the Dark Lord's violence and the cold-hearted murders he had been subjected to watch; how he had risen to Wormtail's challenge, with the wish to prove himself the better man – the better servant.

 _Who am I becoming?_

Somewhere along the way, he had stopped fearing his lord's attention, and instead started to wish for more of it – for praise and acknowledgement. Ever so slowly, he had improved, and the Dark Lord's behaviour had switched. Reprimands had turned into praises, and verbal abuse had turned into promises of trust. He had sought it out – wished for it, deeply. His situation had seemed hopeless, and he had been desperate to better it somehow.

 _Is this my life, now?_

For the first time, ever since falling into the Dark Lord's clutches in that Albanian forest one year ago, he saw his own situation for what it was. A cross-roads. He was standing in the middle of it, wishing to go both ways, but not daring to take the first step.

To his right lay a road deeper into the Dark Lord's fold, where he would cast off all previous doubts and truly swear himself to the cause. All along the road stood black-clad men and women in white skull-shaped masks – the people he would have to push out of the way to get ahead; to get to the top, where the Dark Lord, and by his side, young Harry Potter, stood waiting for him.

To his left lay a road back into the open, where he would be exposed and left in the mercy of the Ministry of Magic. On either side of the path stood people whom he loved, whom he missed, and whom looked back at him with betrayal buried deep into their eyes. His sister. His childhood friends. His colleagues at Hogwarts; Minerva, Filius, Sibyl, Pomona, Septima, Rubeus, Aurora ... _Albus._

Warm tears leaked out of Quirinus eyes as he imagined the expression on his old mentor and most dear friend's face if he could see him right now, scurrying around this dark fortress, licking the Dark Lord's boots. To betray such a brilliant and important person, who had encouraged him do _good_ and strive to bettering the world. He felt such shame that it was unbearable, and tried to shut out the image of Albus' betrayed expression, but found it impossible. The image stuck to his mind as if burned onto his retina, and he was forced to stand, naked and raw in front of that judgement and wallow in remorse.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly into his hands, "I'm sorry, Albus. Please, forgive me."

 _I will have to choose, or I'll drown_ , he thought desperately, shaking with sobs and trying to find purpose. _I cannot keep treading water ... I must end this._

* * *

The morning sun lay just below the tall walls of the Great Hall, creating a sort of fan effect of radiant beams, spreading light over the solemn company, sitting around the long head table.

"I find it absolutely horrendous," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed in the silence following Dumbledore's report on his progress with the Ministry, "how they treat it like that. Harry ... that _poor boy_! If he could see them at it now, how would he _feel_? Assumed to be d-d-d-dead!?" She broke into disgusting sobs, leaning heavily in the embrace of her husband, who shushed her quietly and stroked her back. Severus had to fight, very hard, not to sneer at the lack of control. Why did people always succumb to their emotions and waste time when they could be constructive and _do something_ about the matter instead.

All around the table sat people with downcast expressions, casting sympathetic looks at the Weasleys, murmuring their agreement and support. Hagrid looked worse for wear, his face so puffy and drawn he was barely recognisable, but Lupin looked worst of all – his eyes bloodshot and his overall appearance so ruffled one would think he had just suffered through a full moon.

"I don't see how they can stand for it," Mrs. Weasley kept on in a disgustingly thick voice, wiping at her red nose with a red, white and green tartan handkerchief. "Just giving up like that, _after eleven days_. It's just pitiful!"

"Yes, while I agree with you, Mrs. Weasley," said Shacklebolt, looking down at her with sorrowful dark eyes, "I must also assure you all that the Aurors have not quite given up – not by far. We have received strict orders from upstairs to make the Azkaban breakout our foremost priority, and not to send out Aurors to search for Quirrell and Potter, but the case is far from closed."

"Yes, that is a relief indeed," Dumbledore said in a quiet but forceful voice that successfully brought all attention back onto him. "However, in combination with the Minister's attitude, and the movement of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, this order from 'upstairs', so to say, might mean something more than the common negligence of the Ministry. It might be a plot."

A series of gasps stole over the company, and this time, Severus couldn't resist muttering under his breath. Just how slow _were_ these people?

"Elphias," Dumbledore said, turning to look at the pale Mr. Doge across the table, "have you noticed any oddities in connection to the Wizengamot?"

"Nothing of note," Doge answered, sounding unsure. "If I'm being completely honest, I haven't thought to look, Albus. But I shall keep an eye out, hold no doubt of it."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly before looking down the long table at Mr. Weasley. "Arthur, have you noticed anything out of sorts in your or any of the other departments that you are connected to?"

"I will have to agree with Elphias, Albus," he answered in a tired voice, giving Doge an acknowledging glance at the mention. "Nothing that has drawn my attention – but I will, too, keep an eye out."

Dumbledore nodded again, before turning his eyes back to Shacklebolt. "Kingsley, how is Scrimgeour taking all this?"

"Bitterly," Shacklebolt answered shortly, and Moody started to snicker, his magical eye swirling madly in its socket.

"Probably pains him greatly, being ordered around, in his own department," he mused gruffly, and Shacklebolt's lips twitched slightly in amusement.

"But you don't think that he has been bought?" Lupin inquired, and Mad-Eye's attention instantly snapped onto him.

"I highly doubt that, but I wouldn't rule it out. _Constant vigilance_!" he exclaimed, glaring with open suspicion at the werewolf, who raised his eyebrows at him challengingly.

"This needs to be investigated further," Dumbledore stated and swept his demanding gaze across the table, looking all of the Order members in the eye. "I hope I can trust you all to do your utmost to learn the deeper workings of this. To discern Voldemort's plot is essential to us."

They all nodded and murmured their agreement, thinking solemnly of how they in particular could help to investigate.

"I've noticed some thinks, Dumbledore," Fletcher spoke up after a moment's tense silence. "Some stirrin's, with 'em lower-class wizards back in Knockturn – murmurin's an' whispers. I think he's recruiting freely down there."

"That is disheartening news indeed, 'Dung," Dumbledore answered solemnly. "Do you know how many?"

"Oh, no that's impossible, ain't it," Fletcher exclaimed, holding his sooty hands up in front of him. "But, I reckon it's a lot – ougt'a be, since they're bein' so open about it."

Dumbledore sighed deeply, and shot an inquiring look at Severus, silently begging for him to hurry in getting back into the Dark Lord's ranks. "All the more pressing for us to recruit as well," the Headmaster finally said, knitting his fingers together on top of the table in front of him. "Have any of you heard back from your associates?"

The Great Hall rang of a heavy, very telling silence.

* * *

Voldemort lounged comfortably in his conjured armchair, taking in Miss Thorn's tense appearance, noticing how her eyes refused to linger on him for too long, and how she didn't seem to find a comfortable position to sit in on top of her bed. "Have you had time to think, now?" he asked with a tiny smile, remembering her desperate pleas the last time they had had a little tête-à-tête. Hesitantly, her bright green eyes met his.

"I have," she stated and straightened up, regaining some of the authority that had intrigued him so at Azkaban Island. "I recognise that I do not have the full picture, and I am willing to listen now."

"A sharp turn," Voldemort mused, "for the better, I am pleased to say. I was hoping for you to be reasonable."

Taking in Thorn's befuddled expression at the praise, thinking to himself how predictably she and most people around him reacted to kindness, Voldemort softened his expression to seem more approachable.

"What is your cause?" Thorn asked at length, studying him more confidently now, leaning forwards in her seat. "What do you fight for?"

"Independence," Voldemort answered in a soft, soothing voice, "safety, and freedom."

Thorn blinked back at him, caught off guard. "What do you mean?" she inquired roughly.

"That the Wizarding World is not safe as it is now," Voldemort explained. "We live under the constant threat of exposure. We are completely dependent on the Muggle security service to keep our secret and cover our tracks – and I aim to break that dependence, creating an independent world for us which is safe, and where we can be free to use our magic openly."

He could see quite plainly that Thorn was intrigued. _Hook, line and sinker_ , he thought to himself, preparing himself for a lengthy debate, _this is almost too easy_.

* * *

Yawning hugely behind his hand, Harry munched on his toast and reached for one of the abandoned newspapers in front of him on the table. He had barely caught any sleep, instead lying awake, plagued by the screams of Black, ringing in his head. It had all been so harsh – so cruel, that he hadn't been able to let it go, even though James had tried his very best to soothe him. It seemed that it made no matter how many times he was told that punishment was necessary in some cases, and that Voldemort had used torture on his account; it still felt _wrong_ to him, and he couldn't get it out of his mind.

He leafed through the _Prophet_ , looking for anything of particular interest as he ate his breakfast, completely ignoring the adults spread out down the table, speaking quietly to one another. In the middle of the paper, there was a spread on the continued investigation of the Azkaban breakout, Quirrell's face standing out to him, next to the picture of a dark, stern-looking woman. Apparently, the two of them were the current suspects, and Harry just had to roll his eyes. Didn't they realise how _idiotic_ this all was – Voldemort was quite obviously back. Why couldn't they just realise that already?

There was a dull _pop_ to his left, and looking down, Harry saw Bleak. "Master wants you to sees him now, Mr Harry Potter, sir."

"Oh," said Harry, "can I finish breakfast first?"

"Yes! But quickly; master is waiting in his study," Bleak answered before Disapparating, apparently intending for him to go there himself this time. Harry made short work of his toast and tea, before tossing the paper back to the middle of the table and arising, heading straight for the first floor.

At once when he knocked on the study door, it fell open, and Voldemort's quiet voice bade him to come in. Inside the room, in one of the armchairs in front of the desk, sat a red haired, plump witch, whom Harry thought he remembered from yesterday's breakfast. She has been seated in the middle of the table, together with that large group of wizards and witches.

"Good morning, Harry," Voldemort greeted from behind his desk, arising and walking over to him as the door fell shut behind him.

"Good morning, master," Harry replied and shot an inquisitive look at the witch.

"I want you to meet Healer Cartwright," Voldemort introduced, gesturing to the witch, who arose and made a short curtsey towards him.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter," she said in a sweet voice, fiddling a little with her bottle green robes, as if nervous about something.

"Nice to meet you too," Harry replied quietly, wondering why he was introduced to a healer all of a sudden.

"Cartwright is an expert in ophthalmology," Voldemort explained, and once seeing Harry's uncomprehending expression, said: "Eye healing."

"What?" exclaimed Harry, catching on. "She's not here to do something to _my_ eyes, is she?"

A dangerous smile graced Voldemort's lips, but it wasn't he who replied. "Oh, don't you worry, Mr Potter – I promise you, it is quite safe. You are in good hands."

"No, it's not that I'm worried," Harry replied, meeting eyes with the kind-faced witch, fishing for the right words. "Look, it's nice of you to offer, but I like my glasses. I don't want to get rid of them."

"I'm sure, Mr Potter," Healer Cartwright said soothingly, "that you are attached to your glasses – you have had them since you were very young, have you not?"

"Yeah, since I was five or six, I think," Harry replied wearily, subconsciously reaching his hands up to touch the slim frames, uncomfortable with the healer's scrutinising, overly-friendly stare.

"Yes, it is quite understandable," she simpered, "but, I'm sure you have also been subjected to some trouble as well because of them?"

"No," Harry disagreed, scrunching up his eyebrows, "they're no trouble at all."

All of a sudden, he was pushed backwards and away from Voldemort with a rough shove in the middle of his chest, and his glasses flew off his face and straight into Voldemort's waiting hand. Regaining his balance, trying to orient himself in the suddenly blurry room, Harry glared up at his master.

"Ten hostile wizards rush into the room," Voldemort stated in a cold drawl, putting Harry's glasses into one of his robe pockets. "The first thing they do is take your glasses. What do you do?"

"I summon them back," he tried uncertainly.

"They fly across the room and break," Voldemort answered at once.

"So I repair them," Harry insisted.

"And waste time you do not have. The ten wizards would have taken you out long before you could even summon the glasses."

Harry just glared at him, not knowing what to say. He racked his brain for a good answer, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to retaliate. But he came up with nothing good to say.

"Fine," he finally bit out, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to look up as Voldemort came closer. "I guess I don't have a choice, do I?"

"I will not permit you to have weaknesses, Harry," his master said calmly, holding out the glasses for him to take back, as if they were a peace offering. "You are far too important to die because of something so undignified as losing your glasses. This is not a punishment – I will insist on this to help you."

Sighing deeply in defeat, Harry put the glasses into his own pocket and let himself be led to one of the armchairs, where he sat down and waited as the healer bent down and stared deeply into his eyes for an uncomfortably long moment. "All right, Mr Potter," Healer Cartwright said at last, straightening up. "This will not hurt at all, but I must ask you to sit still, and keep your eyes open when I say so. Is that ok?"

Harry took a deep breath and then nodded once. "Ok."


	13. Chapter 13

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

Voldemort slowly stepped back, observing as Harry tensely let the healer coordinate his movements.

"Tilt your head back a little, please, Mr Potter," Healer Cartwright said in her sickly sweet voice, and smiled encouragingly when Harry did as told, squaring his shoulders. "Good, now close your eyes and relax. I will soon ask you to keep your eyes wide open, is that all right?" Having closed his eyes, Harry nodded shortly, mouth pressed together into a thin line.

His reaction was unexpected; surely, if it had been him at that age, Voldemort thought to himself, he would have been relieved to have one of his weaknesses taken care of.

"All right, Mr Potter; on the count of three," Healer Cartwright said soothingly, holding her wand up to Harry's left eye in preparation. "One ... Two ... Three." Harry opened his eyes wide, and at once, the healer started flicking her wand in an intricate pattern, chanting in a clear voice the Latinized incantations, which would correlate with each other and work as one to transfigure the eye into its ideal shape.

Then, she fell silent and pulled away, leaving Harry hunching his head and blinking, before looking up with wide, slightly moist eyes. He looked around the room, blinking as tears started to swell out of his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away before they could fall down his cheeks.

"Was that all right?" the healer asked gently, and Harry nodded, letting out a shivering breath.

"It's just ... it's so different," he said, looking around the room again, with an expression that grew less and less tense by the second.

Still curious as to his apprentice's suddenly very appreciative reaction, Voldemort watched as Healer Cartwright took care of Harry's right eye as well, gently patting him on the side of his face when she was done, telling him what a good patient he had been.

"How is the result?" he asked, stepping forward again, immediately gaining the rapt attention of both Harry and the healer.

"Oh, it worked very well, my Lord," Healer Cartwright assured him, casting a short glance at Harry. "Or, what do you think, Mr Potter?"

Harry blinked a bit, looking away from his close scrutiny of Voldemort's face, and back to her. "Yeah, it's good," he said with a smile. "It's so different – I never really realised how much simpler everything is without glasses. I mean, I don't need to turn my head to look to the side now, do I?" he said, grinning and demonstrating by looking as far to the right as he could, not moving his head one inch.

"Quite," said Voldemort with a satisfied smile, pleased that Harry had come to terms with the change after all. "That will be all, Healer Cartwright. I commend you for a job well done."

Predictably, she blushed at the praise and refused to meet his eyes. "Th-thank you, my Lord, that is very kind of you ... I was only doing my job, after all," she simpered, daring a glance at him and raising a hand to push a stray lock of hair behind her right ear.

Smiling impassively, Voldemort made one short nod to her, and then made the door open up for her behind her back. "That will be all," he stated, and watched her eyes tint with disappointment.

Then, she bowed her head and curtseyed, before walking out the door, which obediently fell shut behind her. Voldemort then turned back to Harry, who sat studying his own hand, moving it back and forth in front of his face, as if he was testing his depth-perception.

"I am pleased to see that you enjoy the change after all," Voldemort stated, with some smugness, and took a seat in the second leather Queen Anne wing chair, facing Harry, who lowered his hand and met his gaze.

"Yeah ... It's nice, I guess," he said quietly, tensing up a little and clenching his hands into fists in his lap. "Thank you, master."

"No trouble at all," Voldemort replied lightly. "Like I said, it benefits me to get rid of your weaknesses, and I do have quite a few healers on my hands at the moment. A change like this is very easily conducted, for an expert, and frankly, I don't see why not all wizards who need glasses go through with it."

Harry blinked a little, seeming to mull something over. "Perhaps they can't afford it?" he said at length, and Voldemort couldn't help but chuckle at the way he had received just the response he had been hoping for.

"Yes, that is what one would think, isn't it, growing up in the Muggle world?" he replied, crossing one leg over the other to sit more comfortably. "That is precisely the sort of mind-set that has infected the wizarding world; creating this sort of dependency on the Ministry of Magic that is, in many ways, mimicking the Muggle government."

"What do you mean, master?" Harry asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I mean," Voldemort replied with a smirk, "that there is no reason whatsoever for wizards to _not_ afford a magical treatment for their eyes, when that sort of thing is what they need money for, and not everyday expenses. For most part, a proficient wizard can conjure whatever he needs."

"So they don't need money?" Harry asked uncertainly.

"What do you think a wizard would need money for?" Voldemort countered instead of answering.

Harry opened his mouth at once, but then faltered and closed it again, looking conflicted. "What about food?" he asked at length.

"Why would one need to buy food when one can simply conjure it?" Voldemort countered readily. "Have you ever met or even heard of wizarding farmers?"

Harry shook his head, and his eyes blazed with hunger for learning more.

"Moreover," Voldemort continued, "once you have acquired a produce and cooked your meal, it can very easily be multiplied. Similarly, hygiene products, appliances, furniture, even entire houses, can be crafted with magic. You can also travel wherever you'd like at a moment's notice, and you can gather whatever raw materials you would like from nature."

"Then," Harry said, frowning, "why don't people do that?"

"Oh, they do," Voldemort contradicted, "to a certain degree, but not at all to the extent that they could. And the reason why is this; they are taught to care about the wrong things. When you attended Hogwarts, how many things did you learn that you, now, think is useful on an everyday basis?"

"Err," Harry uttered, his gaze growing distant, and he seemed to rack his brain for a good answer. "Perhaps, the Fire-Making Spell ... I mean, I think a lot of the things I learned at Hogwarts were useful."

"Useful when?" Voldemort countered, and Harry at once seemed at a loss for words. "What is taught at Hogwarts is not intended to help people extend their magical powers, or learn how to lead a good life – no; the education is specifically designed to prepare the population for future employment."

"So?" Harry asked, apparently so intrigued that he forgot to be polite. "Wizards need jobs too, right?"

"No," Voldemort replied easily, "not necessarily. Money is a good way to acquire services or items that you cannot perform or craft yourself – as for example; you cannot craft your own wand, so you have to buy one; most wizards do not have expert knowledge in healing, so they have to pay a proficient healer if they get sick or injured; and magical and antique objects are, of course, only acquirable with money. However, any proficient wizard could very easily survive and lead a good life without having any money at all. So strictly speaking, wizards do not _need_ money, but they will benefit from having it. Or, more accurately –" He leaned forwards in his seat, making full eye-contact with his young apprentice. "– they wouldn't need money if it weren't for the fact that the Ministry of Magic has created a dependency on money for the wizarding population. Can you guess how?"

Harry shook his head.

"Taxes." He paused to create a dramatic effect, watching as the realisation dawned on Harry. "The Ministry has made the population dependent on earning money, so that they can pay their taxes. And, unlike how it works in the Muggle world, _every_ wizard of age has to pay – whether he or she has a job or not."

"What happens if they can't pay?" Harry wondered with worry.

Voldemort smiled grimly. "They get a total of three warnings, and if they fail to pay after the third one, Ministry Officials will be sent out to snap their wands and banish them from the wizarding world – leaving them with no other choice but to either make do in the Muggle world, or acquire an illegal wand and stay hidden for the rest of their lives."

"That's horrible!" Harry exclaimed with outrage. "How can they do that?"

"Exactly," Voldemort answered in a quiet voice, leaning back in his chair, feeling victorious. "It is quite horrible, isn't it?"

"But why isn't anybody doing anything?" Harry continued. "Don't they see how it is?"

Voldemort couldn't help but chuckle, and a strange sort of appreciation for his apprentice surged through his mind for one moment. "You don't need to worry, Harry – I'm working on it. I told you that my aim is to liberate the wizarding world, did I not?"

Harry sank back in his chair, looking torn between mistrust of his sincerity and anger at what he had just learned. " _This_ is what you meant?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes," Voldemort replied easily. "Wizards are not meant to have their magic restricted – they are not meant to answer to an institution which enslaves them. There is a distinct difference between wizards and Muggles; autonomy. Wizards are _powerful_ , if they care to be, and can care for themselves to a very high degree. Muggles, on the other hand, cannot; if they want to lead a comfortable life, that is. They are dependent on their government; but the wizards shouldn't be. They should be free."

He let that statement hang in the air, watching Harry's vulnerable expression with rapt attention, trying to judge whether his words had ensnared or merely confounded him. He soon got his answer, as Harry blinked out of his stupor and straightened in his seat.

"I think so too."

* * *

The dense textbook gave off a dry sound when Harry turned the page, and he burrowed down a bit deeper into the sofa, coming to a more comfortable position, leaning against one of its arms with his legs stretched out on its seating. He took in the demonstrative picture on the page; in the right corner was the length of a wand, performing the Inwards Spiral wand movement, and in the middle of the page was a mouse, shrinking in size. He kept watching, seeing that the wand picked up another wand movement once the Shrinking Charm was complete; the Outwards Spiral of the Engorgement Charm, which in turn made the mouse swell back into its original size.

Already imagining what he would be able to do with these two spells (how about an enormous Chocolate Frog, or a pillow the size of a mattress), he read through the text, mouthing the incantations to himself to memorise them.

The occasional noise from his right made him look over the backrest of the sofa every now and then to look at Voldemort, sitting at this desk, alternating between jotting down notes in a handsome leather-bound notebook, and studying the Philosopher's Stone so closely he almost went cross-eyed. On the side of his desk, a neat pile of letters was steadily growing and growing in size, as new letters constantly fell out of thin air and landed on top of it. Voldemort didn't take notice of the growing pile, however; being completely immersed in his study of the stone.

Harry felt conflicted, seeing it now, knowing a great deal more about Voldemort's reasons for taking it and for fighting his way back into the world of the living, than he had about two weeks ago. On the one hand, he still felt it was wrong to burglarise something – especially something so valuable. On the other hand, he recognised the fact that Voldemort had done whatever it took to get back into a body, so that he could keep fighting for what he thought was right. Harry didn't know what to believe, but he couldn't honestly say he thought that Voldemort was _evil_ anymore. That wasn't to say that he was _good_ either ... Harry couldn't really find a word to describe his master. He wasn't really good or evil, only powerful, really.

There was a sudden knock on the door, which made Voldemort put the stone down into a small wooden chest with red velvet lining and then sweep a hand over it to make it disappear. Then, he looked over at the door and made it fall open. Into the room stepped a crooked old man with enormous, thick glasses, which made Harry ponder on what Voldemort had mentioned earlier, about how easily something like poor eyesight could be fixed. How come this haggard old man hadn't done it?

"My Lord," the man said and curtseyed shakily, "I have finished the morning rounds, and might deliver a report on the patients' recovery, if this is a good time."

"Very good, Ilbert," Voldemort replied and gestured for the man to take a seat in one of the brown leather armchairs. "I will take that report at once."

"Yes, my Lord," Ilbert replied and took a seat, clutching the armrests tightly for balance. "I think it will please you that the patients are, in general, back to a nicely balanced physical health. We are still working on their mental health – in particular, as requested, on Mrs Lestrange – and we have made some notable improvements in that department as well."

Neither Ilbert nor Voldemort seemed to mind or even notice his presence, so Harry tuned the conversation out and kept reading, eager to memorise the spells so that he could try them out. He soon finished the chapter, however, and was left with little to do except listening in on Voldemort's conversation or looking through the rest of the book. Since he didn't really find Ilbert's drawled exposition in any way interesting, and because he figured it would be a pretty bad idea to interrupt his master in the middle of a meeting by starting to cast spells, he decided to go back to the start of the book and have a look at the chapter index.

Skimming through it, he noticed that the book was dedicated to charms, and having a second look at the cover, he saw that the title read _Transformation Charms and Why They are Not Transfigurations_. Going back to the index, he saw that the three first chapters handled the theory behind the statement in the title, while the remaining twenty handled one or several charms each. His eyes landed on a chapter title reading 'The Colour Change Charm', which piqued his interest and made him leaf through the book to the assigned page, deciding that he could just as well read that chapter while he waited for Voldemort's meeting to end.

He had managed to get through half of it when the mention of a familiar name broke through his concentration, making his attention switch back to Ilbert and Voldemort's conversation. "... Mr Black – no progress at all. We have tried at great length to convince him of our good intentions, but he absolutely refuses, my Lord. I am afraid that Mr Black will not subject himself to our care. We could, of course, _force_ him – but, I thought it best to report back first to see what action you would prefer, my Lord."

Voldemort sighed and absentmindedly drummed the tips of his fingers against the flat surface of his desk. "I shall have a word with Black – we cannot allow such folly. He will have to realise that we are attempting to help him sooner or later. But no force, Ilbert – he must be treated well, or my progress will be for naught."

"Very well, my Lord," Ilbert answered. "In that case, I will await your clearance." He made a pause, clearing his throat behind a spidery thin hand, before proceeding. "That is all I had to report. Only, I do have something else I would like to take up with you, my Lord. The Potions Makers will arrive in a day or two, if I understand things correctly, so I wanted to double check if you wanted things to be handled like in the past, or not."

"Do you want me to go through what potions shall be required?" Voldemort asked, but Ilbert shook his head.

"No, if my Lord excuses my saying so, but I do think that I shall be able to handle _that_. I was rather wondering whether I should appoint any of them with the task of stocking a separate storage of potions for your personal use, or if you would prefer for them all to focus on rebuilding the general storage."

Voldemort fell silent for a moment, seeming to mull it over. "Tell them to focus on the general storage – but let them know that I might require some personal potions in the future."

"Very well, my Lord," Ilbert answered. "I shall see to it."

With a nod, Voldemort swiftly arose from his chair. "If that was all, we shall pay Bellatrix a visit before you return to your work," he said and didn't wait for an answer before turning to look at Harry. "Have you finished the chapter?"

"Yes, master," Harry answered, receiving a surprised look from Ilbert, who had now arisen – as if he had been unaware that Harry had been in the room the entire time.

"Good," Voldemort replied. "And do you have any questions?"

"No, I don't think so," Harry replied. "Not yet anyway."

"Very well," said Voldemort quietly. "In that case, you are now to start practicing on casting the Charms. You may use this –" he conjured a very ordinary-looking red apple out of thin air and handed it over to Harry, "– as your target."

"All right," Harry answered and put the apple down on the coffee table. "Thank you, master."

With a short nod, Voldemort strode out of the room, and the weasel-like healer slowly followed, muttering "Mr Potter" in parting before grabbing the door by the handle and pulling it closed.

* * *

Voldemort followed Healer Abbott through the windowless corridor, and they soon stopped in front of the door of one of the first floor guest rooms. It was slightly ajar, and after knocking lightly on it, Healer Abbott led the way inside the room.

"I am sorry to bother you again, Mrs Lestrange, but you see ..." Healer Abbott drawled before trailing off, gesturing meekly at Voldemort as he stepped into the room. At once, all eyes were glued on him.

Rodolphus, sitting in a plush armchair by his wife's side, shakily arose and curtseyed, leaning heavily with one hand on an armrest, while his other hand was busy clutching his wife's; standing by the open window, with a knitted scarf wrapped around her shoulders, was Narcissa, who too curtseyed at him at once; and lying in the bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, was the still very pale but altogether far more healthy-looking Bellatrix. She didn't get up to curtsey, but instead took in his appearance with wide eyes, before breathing out, "Master ... My Dark Lord ..." The dark woman put her free hand in front of her mouth and shivered as sobs ripped out of her in gasps, while tears started to roll out of her heavy-lidded eyes.

To her loved ones' gasps and hurried attempts to stop her, Bellatrix tore out of her husband's grip, out from under the covers and over to Voldemort, falling down on her hands and knees at his feet. When Narcissa made to rush over in an attempt to get her sister back to bed, Voldemort held up a halting hand, waiting for Bellatrix to speak to him.

"P-p-please, master," she gasped, looking up at him with deepest remorse, clutching at his robes in height with his knees. "Forgive me ... I tried ... I _know_ , I failed ... Please, you can't ... Don't punish me ... I couldn't ... Master ..."

"She's referring to what happened ten years ago, I think, my Lord," croaked out Rodolphus, studying his wife's huddling form with a mixture of bitterness and grief. "We did our best to find you – to bring you back, my Lord. I am so terribly sorry ... If it hadn't been for the Longbottoms –"

"I couldn't ... they knew, master, they _knew_ , but they wouldn't tell," Bellatrix murmured up at him, eyes looking distant. "Itty-bitty _liars_ ... So filthy ... How _dare_ they?" Bellatrix uttered furiously, before giggling, and then starting to murmur again. "They screamed so prettily ... They knew what they did ... _they knew what they did_ ... filthy lies ... I was only trying ..."

Swiftly, Voldemort hunched down in front of her, prying her hands loose from his robes and holding them captive in his own. "Hush, Bella," he said softly, looking deep into her remorseful eyes, "Lord Voldemort forgives you."

As she broke down in grateful, incoherent sobs, he arose, pulled her up from the ground and lead her back to the bed, where Narcissa and Rodolphus at once swooped in to tuck her in and make sure she was comfortable – all throughout, she never let go of his hands.

"Now, Bella, just relax," he said in a quiet voice, sitting down on the side of the mattress and gingerly prying his hands free, so that he instead could place them on both sides of her head. "I shall have a quick look at you."

"He knows," she murmured with a tender expression, looking up at him with deep affection. "The Dark Lord _always knows_."

After clearing his own mind, he cautiously reached out and entered her mind, feeling around the space for raptures and wounds – and found plenty. The damage was certainly extensive, he thought, and lamented the fact that he had never cared enough for the healing aspect of Mind Magic to make it one of his expertises. If he had, he could have healed her himself, instead of having to worry about inaptness or disloyalty in others' work.

Reluctantly, positively seething at the notion that _he_ should be unfit to perform any sort of task, he slipped out of his once most loyal and skilled Lieutenant's mind, bitterly thinking to himself that he would most likely be forced to find another wizard to fill the position as his Commander and Military Adviser.

He let go of Bellatrix's head and arose, facing Healer Abbott, who had stood silently by the door, simply watching as the scene unfolded in front of him. "A word." He then simply walked out the door, not saying another word, bringing the old healer out into the hallway before he slamming the door shut by hand. "What is the meaning of this?" he questioned in a dangerous hiss. "Her mind looks torn to shreds – there doesn't appear to have been any extensive work on mending it at all. You have been too busy attending to the other patients, perhaps? Rodolphus looked to have improved by leaps and bounds. Or maybe, I was unclear on how _crucial_ it is for Bellatrix to be a priority?"

"My Lord," Healer Abbott croaked and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I _swear_ ; Mrs Lestrange is our prioritised case. And I-I-I agree with you, my Lord; she is in a devastating state. The damage she has taken," he said, swallowing thickly, "far surpasses all other prisoners – I am unsure why, but as a result, her case is moving slowly – but, my Lord, she _has_ improved!"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and leaned in, watching the old man go cross-eyed, trying bravely to keep eye-contact with him through the tick lenses. "I am sure that a healer of your calibre can make an educated guess as to _why_ it is that she should be worse off than all the others …"

"G-g-guesswork is, in itself, not very e-e-educated, my Lord," Healer Abbott defended himself with, perspiring all over his bald patch and down his forehead. "But I swear on my honour as a healer; we are working on it!"

Voldemort looked down at the crooked old man – one of his oldest and most loyal followers – trying to evaluate his sincerity. Furious with himself, once again, for not knowing enough about Mind Healing to come to a proper conclusion, he decided to back off for the moment, until he had had the time to observe the case more closely. "See that you do," he hissed out quietly, and started to walk down the corridor towards the staircases. "Do return to your duties;" he called out over his shoulder before he turned the corner, "I shall tend to Black."

He stalked through the corridors at a quick pace, completely ignoring a group of three healers who were headed in the opposite direction and all stopped to curtsey at him with quiet murmurings of "My Lord". He arrived in front of Black's door in no time at all, and made short work of the locking spells before barging in.

On top of the bed, in his dog-form, like always, lay Black, staring at him with wide eyes as he charged through the door and swiftly made it slam closed behind him. "Black," he greeted quietly and stalked closer to the bed, "Still lazing around in bed, I see."

With cold anger burning in his grey eyes, Black jumped off the bed and transformed back into a man, looking at him with deepest contempt. "Not much else to do in confinement," he bit out.

"Ah, but you are mistaking this for a prison," Voldemort replied with a deadly glare, "when it is more similar to a halfway house."

"Meaning?" Black bit out.

"You are expected to recover," Voldemort clarified in a slightly louder voice, crossing his arms over his chest. "I find myself curious; have you decided to forfeit our agreement?"

Black kept silent, looking torn, as if he wanted to kick and scream against the bonds that held him, even though knowing it was futile. "No," he finally growled, sullenly averting his gaze; a dog-like gesture which made Voldemort's mouth twist into a wicked grin.

"Then, I suggest you stop fighting me," he replied coldly, "and start accepting my help."

"Your help!" Black scoffed, giving him a mistrusting glance. "I don't know what you're playing at; but you're _not_ doing any of this to help me, Voldemort."

"Oh, but I am, Black," he answered, still grinning. "And if you think about it; I am the only one who actually _can_."

Black hunched his shoulders defensively. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much; I always have."

"Is that so," replied Voldemort challengingly. "Well then; let us say that I removed all recollection of this place from your mind and then dropped you off in some remote forest. What then? Where would you go? What would you do? Whom could you talk to? You are an escaped convict, Black. If the Aurors found you now; what do you think they would do? Give you a trial?" He laughed coldly. "Hardly. Had the Dementors still been in service, they would have been ordered to Kiss you upon sight. But since they are _not_ , what do you think their alternative is? They cannot send you back to Azkaban, after all."

"I don't worry too much about the Aurors," Black claimed a bit faintly, refusing to meet his gaze. "I've always been good at staying hidden."

Voldemort laughed coldly. "And what a life it would be – being constantly on the run, with no way of walking around in the open or connect with people. You wouldn't ever get even a semblance of a normal life; and what a shame, isn't it? You haven't ever had that, have you? Ever since you graduated from Hogwarts, you have been fighting a war, and after that, you have been locked behind bars. Don't you _want_ to live? Actually _live_ , and not just stay alive?"

"What I want," Black replied quietly, glaring into the wall as if he wanted to ram his fist into it, "is to see Harry again. And this time, _alone_ , and without you ordering him not to speak with me. That last meeting shouldn't have gone down like that – you don't play fair."

"I play to win," Voldemort replied with a grin, which earned him a nasty glare from Black.

"I want a new chance. I want him to see who I actually am."

"Clean up, accept the healers' care, and eat yourself into a healthy weight again," Voldemort replied and moved towards the door; resting his hand on the knob, "and we shall see about a second meeting." Not waiting for an answer, Voldemort opened up the door and paused on the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Black? You will refer to me as "my Lord" henceforth. Lord Voldemort does not permit _anyone_ to speak his name – not even his loyal subjects."

Then, he closed and relocked the door, before heading back towards his study, thinking that some parts of his work, at least, were not upsettingly tedious.

* * *

" _Engorgio!_ "

Harry watched the normal-sized apple, sitting in front of him on the table, with growing annoyance. What was he doing wrong? He had perfected his pronunciation of the incantation, so it _had_ to be the wand movement which was the problem.

Leaning to the side in the sofa, he flicked through the pages of the book, studying the description closely. He soon realised what the problem was; he was supposed to start making the swirling motion slowly, and then increase the speed until he got to the middle-point of the spiral.

" _Engorgio!_ "

The apple started swelling, and Harry grinned in delight, overjoyed by the fact that the spell had finally worked. But then, his triumph turned to dread as the fruit suddenly exploded in his face. Harry wiped away the suds covering his eyelids, and stared wide-eyed at the spot where the apple had been, wondering what went wrong.

Then, there was a _pop_ to his left.

"Are you all right, Mr Harry Potter, sir?"

"Yeah, sorry, just mucked up a spell," he muttered, watching as Dobby snapped his fingers – making the apple pieces disappear at once. Harry grinned, delighting in having the mess taken care of, and feeling impressed once again by what magic could do. "Thanks, Dobby," he said, smiling down at the big-eyed elf. Looking at him more closely, Harry saw, with wonder and quite some relief, that all bruises and wounds, which had previously covered Dobby's entire body, were gone. "You look good," he said. "Your wounds have healed."

"Thank you, sir," Dobby simpered squeakily, "Harry Potter is a good, kind wizard who cares about Dobby's wounds, sir."

"Yeah, sure," Harry muttered, frowning with thought. Hadn't Dobby acquired those wounds by punishing himself for disobeying Voldemort? "Have you been healing yourself?"

Dobby seemed about to reply, but then, he looked up at the closed door. "Master's coming." And with a _pop_ , he was gone.

The next instant, the door slid open, and Voldemort strode into the room. Harry blinked and pushed all thoughts about Dobby to the back of his mind, dismissing his questions with the thought that Dobby probably _had_ started healing himself – possibly after Voldemort had caught sight of him and ordered him to keep a neat appearance or something.

"Are you making progress?"

"Err," Harry uttered, looking up at his master, who stood to the right of the sofa, peering down at him with anger burning in his eyes. "No, the apple exploded ... Are you all right?"

He regretted asking the question the moment the words left his mouth, and he looked down at his lap, feeling how Voldemort took a seat next to him in the sofa. "Yes, why do you ask?"

There was a short swishing sound, and then, Voldemort held out a new apple in front of his face. Harry accepted it slowly and put it down on the table, in the same spot where the other apple had been. "You just look a bit angry, that's all."

When Voldemort responded by chuckling quietly, Harry looked up, and saw that some of the anger had been exchanged for something far softer. "It is kind of you to notice, Harry," he said, crossing one leg over the other, "but you don't need to worry. It'll pass. Now, you said that the apple exploded. Which spell were you attempting to cast?"

"The Engorgement Charm," Harry responded quickly, glad that Voldemort had decided to change the subject.

Voldemort hummed in understanding and nodded shortly. "You used too much force – you need to use the right amount of Mana; not too much and not too little. This is a difficult balance which most wizards have trouble with when starting out – which is one of the reasons why I wanted you to learn these spells in particular. You need to get a sense of how much Mana is needed before performing the spell."

"Then," Harry said, raising his wand at the apple, "how do I do that?"

Voldemort smiled. "Close your eyes and steady your breathing."

Harry did so, taking deep breaths through his nose until he felt a sense of calm spread all over his body. "And then?"

"Focus on your wand," Voldemort said quietly. "Feel the connection and think of the size you want to accomplish. Then, open your eyes, look at the apple and imagine it growing to that size."

Harry had to try a couple of times, but soon, he felt a deep sort of warmth coming from his wand, as if it was responding to his consciousness of it. Then, a slightly ticklish feeling started to trickle down his arm toward his fingertips, and his wand started to hum with the power.

" _Engorgio!_ "

The apple slowly started to swell, and once it had grown as big as a football, it stopped. With a grin, Harry looked up at Voldemort, who looked back at him with a smile of his own.

"Well done."


	14. Chapter 14

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

"Care for a drink?"

Severus sneered darkly, and hastily pulled the skirts of his robes away as Fletcher scurried past to rummage about in his dark, grimy kitchen. "No, thank you," he drawled and moved closer to the middle of the living room in order to avoid stepping in or brush against any of the trinkets and garbage that lay about in piles all over the room. "I am needed elsewhere, and so shall keep my visit short."

"Don' even 'ave time for a drink, ey? Shame that," Fletcher responded with a grin, leaning against the door frame as he took a deep chug out of his hipflask. "More for me then, I suppose," he said, wiping his mouth and then screwing the lid into place. "You should loosen up a little, Sev'rus," he said then, zigzagging through the clutter towards a threadbare sofa, which he dumped himself in with a contented sigh. "Life's too short, you know? 'Specially in times like these."

"All the more reason to keep a level head," Severus said through clenched teeth. "Mistakes don't come cheap these days."

Fletcher threw his head back in a high-pitched cackle, and wiped with both hands at his head and down his long ginger hair, as if to get stray strands out of his face. "Truest words I've 'eard for a good while, Sev'rus. I should'a had you around to remind me of tha' a good ten years back, shouldn't I? We like keepin' things cheap around 'ere ... bu' seem to forget tha' little detail every now an' then."

A sharp burn on the sensitive skin of his left arm stopped him from making a short-tempered retort, and instead, by reflex, a forceful calm settled over his mind.

"Somethin' the matter?" Fletcher asked, leaning forwards in his seat. "You went awfully pale there for a bit."

"That is no concern of yours," Severus answered coldly and crossed his arms over his chest. "You seem to be under the misconception that I am subjecting myself to visiting this dump in order to make a social call."

"'Ey!" Fletcher called out, arising and laughing with his hands raised. "Let's keep it civilised, ey?"

Severus only smirked darkly. "Give. Me. The ingredients, Fletcher."

"What's your bleedin' 'urry?" the grubby little man replied shiftily and narrowed his beady brown eyes.

"My hurry, Fletcher, is that you promised the Order to provide rare potions ingredients – and as it so happens, I shall require some of those." Severus took a menacing step forward, clenching his teeth against the raging pain. "Or perhaps, you have not acquired the ingredients? Perhaps, you had never intended to do so. Perhaps, you do not wish to stand with the Order after all ..."

"Wh-wh-wh – No! Of course, tha's –" Fletcher stuttered and wiped at his forehead.

"Then prove it," Severus demanded sharply, and after giving him a frightened glance, Fletcher broke into laughter and stumbled across the room, kicking some stools and trinkets out of the way to get to a thick wooden lore standing in the corner.

"'Ere you go. Take wha' you came for," he said with a bitter grin, muttering "Order business – burnin' a bloody big 'ole in my pocket, it is. Would 'ave been no chicken feed, that," as he scurried off into the kitchen.

Severus paid him no heed, knowing full well that nothing Fletcher wanted to earn a hack from was his to sell or own in the first place, and put the ingredients into his right cloak pocket. Next, he slunk out of the dingy apartment and out on the streets, navigating through Knockturn Alley to the Apparition point in its outskirts. There, he fell back into a dark corner and pushed his wand up his sleeve, so that its tip touched his searing mark, before he took a deep breath and Apparated with a sharp _crack._

He arrived on a small patch of rocks in the middle of the ocean. The sun was standing low on the clear blue sky, and a hefty wind whipped around him from all directions, making his cloak, robes and hair flap dramatically. Severus relaxed his stance once he realised that he was not about to be attacked, and instead opted for orienting himself. Twisting and turning, he looked around for any sign of land, but didn't see anything other than the billowing ocean surrounding the little patch of rock, sticking up seemingly at random. Was this another of the Dark Lord's meeting spots? Severus found that highly unlikely, since the Dark Lord was not present.

A sudden _hiss_ coming from a crevice close to his feet made him look down and take a weary step back. Out of the hole, the tiny head of a grass snake poked up, looking at him unflinchingly, before letting out another hiss and starting to slither over the rocks towards the surface of water. Surprisingly, once it neared the water edge, more rocks arose out of the water to meet it, letting it travel easily forwards without getting wet. Severus followed it, treading carefully on, recognising the signs of a Fidelius Charm.

 _Interesting choice to use a snake as Secret Keeper_ , he thought to himself, pondering on how easily it would be for him to kill it if he chose to – rendering the Dark Lord's stronghold completely vulnerable to attack. _I wonder what security precautions the Dark Lord has taken to protect the snake. If I went for a Killing Curse, would it simply go through it, because it is not truly the snake itself but a mirage? Or if not, would, upon its death, an identical snake – the new Secret Keeper – appear to take its place, without disrupting the Charm? Or would, perhaps, even the barest sign of a threat make the snake multiply into a hundred identical snakes, making the original immensely difficult to find?_

In front of him, more and more rocks shot up out of the water the longer they travelled, creating a sort of rocky pier in the middle of nowhere, leading to nothing; that was, until what shot up out of the water was not rock but a stony shore. The snake slipped off the rocks and onto the shore, and after it had coiled into a heap on the pebbled ground, and Severus had set foot on land himself, the rest of a proud, fairly oval island shot up out of the water in front of him.

In the middle of the island was a scarce pine forest, with a couple of Ravens sitting in the trees, staring down at him with dark eyes. To the right of him was a stony road, with little blue flowers imbedded in it, leading uphill to the other side of the island, where a handsome grey fortress with tall windows and two towers stood.

 _The Dark Lord's stronghold_ , he thought to himself, drawing in a deep breath of fresh ocean air, before starting to trek up the path, carefully avoiding stepping on the flowers. His eyes were eagerly taking everything in, every little detail, and his mind was putting everything to memory, to be examined and considered at a later date. Once he had arrived at the grand gates of the fortress, he firmed his grip on his wand, and knocked. A couple of seconds later, the left door swung inwards, admitting him, and once he had stepped into the tall Entrance Hall, he saw it was an elf that had let him in.

He carefully refrained from calling out Dobby's name, and instead forced himself to calm and continue to take everything in. It wouldn't do to be hasty. "Good day, Mr Snape, sir," said Dobby and bowed low to him. "Master is expecting you," he said once he had straightened up. "Dobby shall takes you to him, sir. Do you wish Dobby to takes your cloak?"

Severus watched the elf closely, trying to discern what he was up to, and decided to play along. "Yes." He easily undid the clasp of his black cloak and let it fall from his shoulders, folding it on the middle before handing it over to the short elf, who readily accepted it with a grin.

"This way, Mr Snape, sir."

Dobby headed up the stairs, doing his best to peer over the thick bundle of fabric in his arms, and after pocketing his wand, Severus was about to follow when he caught sight of an old man, heading down the staircase from the first floor.

"Severus," the old healer said with a neutral face once he caught sight of him. "Good to see you – Hogwarts, is it? Potions Master, if I recall correctly. A highly impressive position."

"Yes, thank you, Healer Abbott," he replied and stepped to the side to allow the old man to descend from the staircase. "That is correct. Are you still at St Mungos?"

"I am," Healer Abbott croaked proudly. "Healer-in-Charge of the Janus Thickey Ward since December last year ... truly fascinating patients ... horrible fates, of course ... Well, it was good to see you, Severus. I must get going."

After nodding respectfully to the old man as he left, pondering on his current involvement with the Dark Lord, Severus followed Dobby up the stairs and through a windowless corridor lit up with candles, sitting in silver holders on the walls. The vague sound of conversation could be heard from several of the doors they passed – many of them standing ajar. Having made a left turn and walked to the middle of the corridor, Dobby stopped in front of a closed door and knocked on it steadily.

A moment later, the door opened up, admitting their entrance. Following Dobby inside of the room, Severus was greeted by the sight of the unsettlingly young-looking Dark Lord, sitting behind his desk, looking up at him from his letter writing.

" _Snape_!"

The call of utter outrage had come from his right, and looking over at the sitting group by the fireplace, he caught sight of a very guilty-looking Potter. His eyes stood out even more starkly than usual, since he was currently lacking glasses, and Severus fought very hard with himself to be able to meet them unflinchingly. "Yes, Mr Potter," he said in a dry voice. "You have remained as ... observant as always, I see."

At once, Potter flushed and narrowed his eyes, but strangely kept his mouth shut. A quiet chuckle made them both turn to look at the Dark Lord, who arose from his chair after drying his quill and putting it down. "Such a sharp tongue, Severus, my old friend," he said in a soft voice, smiling. "I though you would be pleased to see Harry, judging by our last conversation. I was rather expecting a tearful reunion."

Severus kept his jaw taut. "I am, of course, relieved ... to see that Potter appears to be ... unharmed."

"Oh, he has come to very little harm, Severus, I can assure you of that," the Dark Lord promised with a wicked gleam in his eyes, before turning to Potter. "Harry, come here," he said and beckoned with his hand, and slowly, Potter did as asked. Once he stood right in front of the Dark Lord, he was pushed to stand facing Severus by a hand snaking around his shoulders. "You might have noticed that Harry does no longer require glasses. I personally made sure one of my healers saw to it just this morning; so in a way, one might say that Harry is healthier now than he was before coming into my care."

Harry looked to the side, pointedly avoiding looking his old professor in the eye, still sporting a guilty expression. "And does Potter ... enjoy this change?" Severus asked slowly, forcefully drawing his gaze away from the close scrutiny of Potter's eyes, only to meet the very amused-looking eyes of the Dark Lord.

"Do you, Harry?" the Dark Lord asked softly, looking down at the boy, who looked up at him with apprehension.

"Yes, master," he whispered, before lowering his head again.

Severus lost complete control of his temper, and his heart seemed to have stopped inside his chest. "Master?" slipped out of him quite without permission, and at once, Potter's flush intensified, and the Dark Lord's smile widened.

"Why yes, Severus," the diabolical man answered. "What else should my apprentice call me?"

Had Severus not already been aware of that little fact, he might have lost control completely; but he managed to keep calm, if only just barely. Of course, he had known that Potter was in this position, but he had never, _never_ , expected him to be so accepting; so willing; so weak as to surrender to the man who had killed his parents – who had murdered Lily. He had never expected Draco to be right when he claimed that Potter was strutting around the Dark Lord's quarters as if he owned them; but he _was_. He was standing there, straight-backed with the Dark Lord's hand resting comfortably on his shoulder, without _any_ fuss. And he was calling him _master_ out of his own free will!

"Severus?" the Dark Lord said softly, tilting his head a little to the side. "Is something the matter?"

"Not at all, my Lord," he managed in a strained voice, struggling to calm himself. "I am merely ... surprised at this turn of events. I was, after all – I beg your pardon, my Lord – under the impression that you wanted to _kill_ Potter; not take him on as your apprentice."

The Dark Lord merely answered by letting out another chuckle, clenching Potter's shoulder lightly before letting go. "Why don't you take some time off your studies for the rest of the day, Harry," he said, and Severus heard the door open up by itself behind his back.

Potter looked about to protest the unfairness of being dismissed, but seemed to think better of it the moment after and merely nodded before heading out the door and disappearing.

"I take it you have come to a decision, since you answered my call," the Dark Lord stated, rounding his desk and sitting down again, resting his elbows against the flat surface and leaning his chin comfortably against his entwined hands, studying Severus with mirth.

"Indeed," Severus answered tensely, walking slowly across the room and sitting down in a fairly hard leather armchair in front of the desk. "My Lord, during our last meeting, you made it appear as if Potter was in some danger, and that, on the occasion that I wished to keep him safe, I should ... get past my grudges and prove my worth to you."

"And have you decided to do this?" the Dark Lord asked quietly, leering at him devilishly; the expression clashing horribly with the light of the setting sun streaming through the window behind him, lighting his dark-haired head up from behind in the crude mockery of a halo.

Severus hesitated. "My Lord, from what it appears, Potter is not under any ... tangible threat."

"You would not say that his being under my care is threatening enough?"

"You wish me to swear myself to you in order to protect Potter from you, my Lord?" Severus questioned carefully; a conclusion which only seemed to increase the Dark Lord's mirth.

"That does sound a bit ludicrous, does it not?" he answered with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair with an expression indicating that he was trying to defuse the tension, but Severus stayed impassive, sensing a trap.

"Perhaps ... but not as ludicrous as some ... matters in the past," Severus answered, measuring his words carefully and watching the Dark Lord's reaction closely.

There was a tense pause, during which all signs of mirth slipped off the Dark Lord's face. "Yes ... You are, of course, referring to the prophecy, are you not, Severus? The prophecy which told of my coming doom, and of the boy who would have the power to vanquish me ... The prophecy which, indirectly, lead to the death of your beloved Lily ... and which you, incidentally, brought to my attention yourself ... Such a tragedy, is it not? The three of us bound together by the destruction of what we hold most dear – my power, Harry's family, and the love of your life. Such a fateful night. And to think it all could have been avoided, so simply, if not for that prophecy."

Severus swallowed against the dryness in his throat, refusing to subject himself to the Dark Lord's attempt in trying to make him feel guilt. The days of such nonsense were long past. "Yes ... It was truly ... unfortunate that something so unreliable as a prophecy came to ... carry such weight with the Light ... and the Dark."

The mirth returned to the Dark Lord's face. "What came to pass that fateful night is, in fact, the reason why Harry is in danger still; the reason why the only safe place for him, at least in this vulnerable state, is by my side. If you indeed do wish to keep him safe, Severus – and no, not from me, but from the people who wish to go to great lengths to _destroy_ everything that Lord Voldemort is – then you have no other choice but to side with the Dark."

Severus held his breath and studied the Dark Lord's expression intensely, watching him arise from his seat and walk over to stand by one of the great windows in the left side of the room, looking out at the sunset.

Soon, he began to speak in a soft voice. "My memoires from that time are muddled – something had come over me, and I was not in the right state of mind. I had convinced myself, against better judgement, that the prophecy was important – that because Dumbledore trusted in it, and acted upon it, it would be fulfilled one day. So when Wormtail appeared before me, handing his friends over on a silver platter, I threw all precaution to the wind and travelled there – without backup and without a plan.

"I arrived in front of their house, and barely took any precautions before barging inside. I had put up an Anti-Apparition Ward, and I had blocked their fireplace, but that was all ... I blasted the door to smithereens, and the Potters reacted at once. James Potter came running out into the hallway, without a wand, and called out for Lily to take Harry and run. I remember laughing in his face as I killed him ... and then, I chased Lily up a staircase. She tried to block me out by throwing locking charms at the door to the nursery ... Futile, of course. I blasted the door away and levelled my wand at her, asking her to step away from Harry."

The Dark Lord looked over his shoulder at Severus, wearing an oddly soft expression. "I was going to keep my word, Severus," he said quietly, barely moving his lips. "You had been faithful and, frankly, invaluable to me ... and I had every intention of sparing her for your sake ...

"But that was not the only intention I had," he said in a clearer voice, turning back to look out the window. "Are you familiar with Horcruxes, Severus?"

At once freezing up, momentarily forgetting how to breathe, Severus added one new piece to the puzzle and hurriedly scratched out a handful of possible scenarios from his mind – if the Dark Lord had _Horcruxes_ , he was indeed even more powerful than Severus had even dared to fear.

"I am, my Lord," he answered in a wheeze, clutching the armrests of his chair so harshly that his knuckles had grown white.

"When I learned of Harry Potter's significance, I knew, at once, that he should be the death to empower my final and most powerful Horcrux. I thought it beautifully ironic that the boy who should have ensured my demise would instead ensure my survival. So, preparing for finally killing him, not intending to kill Lily but to spare her, I initiated the ritual ... but when she did not comply; when she continued to defy me; the madness came over me and I killed her. Not thinking clearly, I then turned to Harry ... and sent another Killing Curse his way ... I think you might have guessed what happened next, have you not, Severus?"

Severus drew in a raspy breath. "The ritual was initiated ... the sacrifice was accepted, and the wand was going to create the Horcrux ... but you cast another Killing Curse instead ... So two things must have happened at once."

"The ritual was completed," the Dark Lord filled in, "making Harry himself my Horcrux." Severus's heart grew cold as ice. "But additionally; the Killing Curse bounced off Harry and onto me, killing me. And thus, Magic tore Harry's soul apart, and my soul – anchored to the world of the living – became _his_ Horcrux."

Silence rang between the walls of the room once the Dark Lord's tale had come to an end, and Severus struggled to regain control of his frozen body; completely paralyzed with shock. He tried to clear his mind, but he could not get rid of the insistent ringing in his ears, or the persistent repetitions of the Dark Lord's last statement. _Magic tore Harry's soul apart ... my soul became his Horcrux ... his Horcrux ... Magic tore Harry's soul apart ... apart ... tore Harry's soul ... my soul became his Horcrux ..._

"So, you see, Severus," the Dark Lord continued, turning around at last, scrutinizing his reaction closely. "Harry and I are bound to each other ... irrevocably. If the wrong people – people who could find it in themselves to kill the boy _for the greater good_ – found out that he is a Horcrux ... he would, indeed, be in danger."

"Yes," Severus replied, still struggling to shut out the insistent voice in his head.

Watching him with predatory intent, the Dark Lord stalked closer, and sat back down in his seat behind the desk. "Do you agree, then, to swear yourself to Lord Voldemort, and the Dark Cause, once more?"

"... Yes," Severus replied at length, once he had finally managed to calm himself enough to make a rational decision.

"Excellent," the Dark Lord purred, leering at him with a wicked glint in his red eyes. "A wise choice, my old friend. I would ask you to make good of that promise and tell me everything you know about the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's plans at once, but, I see that my revelations have shocked you. Might I suggest another time for your much awaited report?"

Severus drew in a deep breath and nodded. "Thank you, my Lord. Some ... respite to ... come to terms with this would be ... much appreciated."

The Dark Lord hummed softly, as if with understanding. "How long of a respite do you require? Two days?"

"Yes, Friday evening should work well," Severus answered.

The Dark Lord nodded. "Very well, I shall expect you at seven o'clock on Friday."

Stiffly, Severus arose and curtseyed to the Dark Lord, uttering a reverent "My Lord," before turning around and walking out of the room. He hurried through the long corridor and down the staircase, fully intending to make it off the island as fast as he possibly could manage, but was halted by a quiet call at the base of the staircase.

"Mr Snape, sir! Your cloak!"

He stopped in his tracks and looked down at the little elf, who held up his folded cloak towards him. He accepted it with dull hands, and hurriedly shrugged it on. As he looked up from the clasp, he met eyes with Potter, standing in the open doorway leading into a grand Reception Hall.

"Professor," he said quietly, looking extremely fidgety and nervous, but also determined. "Are you going to tell them? Professor Dumbledore and ... everyone? About me ..."

Severus was rendered completely speechless, and his heart pinched him painfully within the chest at the thought of Lily's son – _Lily's son_ – being subjected to such a fate. To have had his soul torn apart against his will, and held captive by the man who killed his parents. To have to bear the burden of carrying the Dark Lord's soul around, and have his freedom restricted because of it. And worst of all; to have to pay the price of having a Horcrux without having made the decision himself. Harry Potter was not hole, and was never going to be. He would never find peace; true happiness; or love. Everything in his life would be tainted, and he would be forced to live an eternity without the ability to feel deeply for somebody else, in the way only love could make one feel; the way Severus still felt for Lily.

"Mr Potter," he began stiffly, clenching his jaw as he thought about what he could say. "I will do ... whatever I can ..." Potter looked perplexed, but Severus didn't feel he could say anything further, and promptly wrapped the cloak tighter around his body and headed out through the door.

He rushed down the path, eyes set on the pier, trying his best to keep it together. He stepped onto the rocky path and hurried across, until he felt the wards grace over the skin of his face. Then, he Apparated into his own living room at 12 Spinner's End and collapsed on the sofa.

At once, he Summoned a tumbler and a big flask of Firewhisky from his kitchen cupboards and poured himself a generous amount. Before closing the flask, he took a deep swig out of it, hissing against the fiery burn travelling down his throat and dulling his senses.

The liquor heated him up at once, so he struggled out of his cloak and tossed it carelessly onto the right armrest of the sofa. A heavy _thump_ was heard as the potions ingredients he had collected from Fletcher fell to the ground, and grimacing, he swooped down to the floor to check on the damage.

To his immense relief, the ingredients had survived the fall, and he hastily scooped them up and put them down onto the coffee table to be taken care of at a more preferable time. Looking down at the pile, he frowned and picked up a tiny scroll of parchment which he did not recognise.

Sinking back down onto the sofa, he unrolled it and read the horribly poor-written message with greedy eyes.

 _Master has find out ser. Master has put a curse on Dobby but Dobby has find a loop hole ser. Dobby can brings Harry Potter down to the edj of the wards ser. Pleas writ back to Dobby ser if you wants Dobby to do this._

* * *

Harry sighed deeply, sitting by one of the windows on his huge pillow in his tower, looking out at the darkening sky. Snape's sudden appearance had caught him off guard. After he had met Quirrell by the Mirror of Erised, and not Snape, he had thought that he had been wrong about his old professor, and that he had been loyal to Dumbledore after all. But now, it appeared as if he had been on Voldemort's side all along.

He didn't know what to think anymore; who to trust and who to mistrust. He had hoped that the people at Hogwarts were the good guys, and that they would try their best to find him. But now, it seemed as if they had given up on him. Harry had thought for sure that Dumbledore would be able to find him, but apparently, that wasn't so.

Also, the more time he spent with Voldemort, the less he felt like he was the _bad guy_. Black had called him that, and he really didn't seem like someone Harry could trust. And now, it appeared as if Snape thought Voldemort was the _good guy_. They seemed like good pals – Voldemort had even called him 'my old friend'.

Harry shivered a little, remembering Snape's disappointed face when he learned that Voldemort didn't intend to kill Harry anymore. He was probably mourning the fact that Harry was alive after all, despite what the _Daily Prophet_ wrote. He had certainly seemed angry when he learned that Harry had become Voldemort's apprentice. He probably hated the fact that Harry was not only alive, but was actually taken care of as well.

"I wonder what he'll do," he sighed, resting his face against the cool, blue-stained glass of the window.

" _You don't need to worry_ ," James assured him softly, making a warm feeling cocoon around him and sooth his worries. " _He can't do anything much."_

 _He can tell everyone at Hogwarts_ , Harry thought, flushing with shame at the thought that everyone would know that he was cooperating with Voldemort.

" _Yes, but he isn't the only one who can ... Malfoy, for instance, also knows about you._ "

 _Yes, but I don't think people will believe Malfoy that much_ , Harry thought, frowning, _but Snape is an adult ... and Dumbledore trusts him_.

" _You don't need to worry either way_ ," James soothed again. " _Voldemort won't let anything happen to you_."

 _I just ... I know it's wrong, okay? I know that I should fight and scream and shout and ... refuse to cooperate ... that's what they'll think anyway, and they'll hate me when they find out._

James sighed mournfully, and Harry sniffled as tears started to build up in his eyes. " _They don't know what you've had to do, and why you've had to agree to the things you've agreed to. They might not like the outcome, but they haven't been in your position. If they should blame anyone for this, it's Voldemort ... You haven't done anything wrong, Harry_."

Harry soaked up the soothing words, and stopped crying, but the searing feeling in his chest refused to disappear. As the night fell and the starts twinkled alive, he sat still, and watched the world darken.


	15. Chapter 15

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Fifteen

* * *

Harry blinked blearily awake, and was startled by the sudden weight that pushed down on his shoulder. Wrestling out of the grip and against his bed sheets, he stared at the dark shape sitting on the side of his bed. The intruder's head was entirely lit up from behind by the early rays of sun streaming through the east window, casting his face into shadow, but the silhouette was unmistakable.

"Master?" Harry croaked out, feeling his slamming heart slow its pace.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Voldemort answered quietly, with some amusement, and arose from his seat.

"What time is it?" Harry asked, rubbing his grainy eyes while stumbling out of bed, hissing a little when his bed-warm feet made contact with the cold stone floor.

"Nearly five," Voldemort answered dismissively and started to walk over to the doorway. "Make yourself presentable – I will require your assistance shortly."

"For what?" Harry asked while hurrying towards his wardrobe to fetch a set of clothes, and some warm socks.

Voldemort paused half-way out of the door, and looked at him with some mischief dancing in his glowing red eyes. "The Basilisks are hatching."

With wide eyes, and a short gasp of excitement, Harry hurriedly got dressed, made a short stop at the bathroom, and then flew down the stairs to the Dark Lord's office, where Voldemort stood waiting for him with an impatient air about him. "We do not have any time to waste," he declared and walked over to where Harry stood, unceremoniously grabbing hold of his upper arm and Disapparating.

They appeared in a dark, cold space, which Harry recognised as the cellar once Voldemort had lit all candles on the walls with a simple flicking motion with his hand. All along the long working table sat the nests, containing eggs, which Harry remembered as white, but which were now bottle-green; and some vague _cracking_ sounds could be heard from them. They also seemed to have deflated a little, like worn footballs, and some of them had little cuts in them.

Voldemort had closed in on a particular egg, which had a couple of deep gashes in it, and Harry stole closer as well, holding his breath.

When nothing immediately happened, he looked up at Voldemort, whose expression was one of tangible excitement. "Do we have to do anything?" Harry asked quietly, feeling almost afraid that something bad would happen if he spoke too loudly.

"No, just watch," Voldemort answered just as quietly and snaked his left arm around Harry's shoulders to pull him closer to the egg. Harry leaned in a little, studying the gashes and listening with growing calmness to Voldemort, who had started to hiss out soothing sounds with an odd kind of melody to them. The song rang softly between the walls, and soothed Harry nearly to sleep where he stood watching the egg.

Suddenly, a tiny head peeked out of the largest gash, and Harry was startled wide awake, looking down at the slightly moist baby snake. "Look," he gasped, and received a short squeeze on the shoulder from Voldemort. " _It's so little!_ "

The snake turned its head towards him in response to his hiss, and it looked up at him with bleary yellow eyes, before producing a tiny nonsensical sound. Harry smiled as a warm feeling started spreading inside his chest, making him feel instantly very protective of the little hatchling in front of him, and he slowly reached out a hand to touch it, but at once, Voldemort snatched the appendage in a firm grip and grew instantly silent.

"Not yet," he said quickly and steered Harry away to the side, "just watch for now. They need to go through this process on their own, but once they're out of their eggs they will require our assistance. Go take a look further down the row. I thought I saw something move."

"Right, sorry," Harry said, feeling a little ashamed for his near-blunder, and started moving deeper into the room, closely inspecting all the eggs on his way down the row. Once he had reached the end of the line, Voldemort picked up on his soothing melody, and at once, a tiny head sprung out of the last egg in the row, as if in reaction to it.

Harry smiled gently down at the snake, taking in its glistening, dark green scales and starkly yellow eyes. " _Hello there,_ " he hissed softly, instantly receiving the attention of the little snake, that hissed back at him and moved a little further out of the egg, as if it wanted to get closer to him. Harry shot a quick look at Voldemort, to see if he disapproved of his speaking to the snake. But his Master paid him no attention. He stood leaning over the egg on the other end of the working table, still hissing his song to the snakes with such gentleness, Harry was reminded on how Hagrid had behaved around his baby dragon Norbert.

Thinking that Hagrid probably would have loved to be there right now, Harry turned back to the snake in front of him and watched as it ventured further out of its shell and then retracted its head until only the tip of its mouth could be seen. Once again, Harry was filled with a strong sense of protectiveness for the little creature and leaned in so that he could see it better. " _Don't be afraid,_ " he hissed softly and smiled when the snake hissed back at him and stuck out its head.

A small hiss from his right made Harry turn his head and see another little head peak out of its shell three eggs up the row. "There's another one," he called out to Voldemort, who looked up at him with an affirmative nod, but kept up with his hissed out melody without interruption.

Harry walked up to the new hatchling, and it hissed softly at him as he grew closer. Simultaneously, the snake behind him let out a hiss of its own, sounding mildly distraught, and upon hearing the sound, Harry turned back around, and watched the snake slither out of its shell and across the rough straws of the nest.

"It's out!" Harry called out to Voldemort, who instantly shot across the room and scooped up the snake, just as it had slithered onto the tabletop and was about to coil down to the floor. It coiled its dark green body around his hand with quick motions, but calmed down at once when Voldemort started hissing softly to it.

" _Harry, go get the basket next to the door_ ," he hissed in between soothing nonsensical sounds, and Harry headed at once down the room, spotting a rectangular wicker basket with a wide-open lid, which he gingerly picked up, careful not to disturb the soft carpet of wood shavings inside.

He brought it over to Voldemort, who carefully placed the little snake in his hands inside, and headed up the table to another nest, where another Basilisk was on its way out of its nest. "Help me pick them up. All of them shall go into the basket," he instructed in a short tone, and Harry instantly set to work, having spotted that the snake which had responded to him earlier was now slithering towards him across the table. Placing the basked carefully onto the floor, he charged forwards and picked the little hatchling up, smiling when it instantly relaxed in his grip.

It soon became stressful work, since it appeared that once the first snake had ventured out of its shell, more snakes were following its example. They were all extremely quick, but thankfully, seemed to be completely placated when coming into contact with either Voldemort of Harry's soothing touches. They were all about the same size, had starkly yellow eyes and had the same shade of dark green scales – however, the black markings running down their backs differed from snake to snake. Some of them had barely any markings at all, and others were so covered in them, their backs were almost completely black.

Harry found he barely had the time to pick one snake up when the next one started to crawl his way, and he soon found himself carrying two or sometimes three snakes at once; thirty quick little hatchlings turned out to be quite the handful, but he loved every second of it. For every little body he cradled, and every little affectionate hiss he received, he felt his heart swell with joy.

After a good amount of running up and down the table, the basket was littered with little snakes, lying in heaps in the corners and crawling on top of each other in search for warmth. The nests were empty; except for one. Stalking closer to the end of the table, where Voldemort stood hunched over the final egg, which was a good deal brighter in colour than the others, Harry saw that it had no cuts in it.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked carefully, and Voldemort hummed thoughtfully.

"Sometimes, snakes have trouble breaking out of the shells," he explained, and reached out towards it with his right hand, running his index finger very softly over the pale surface of the egg. Trailing behind the touch was a very thin gash, growing with the movement, and when Voldemort retracted his hand, there was some movement within the egg. Then, a small head poked out, which, to Harry's surprise, was white with a soft purple hue to it. But what more was; the snake's eyes were not yellow, but brightly red; looking eerily similar to Voldemort's.

"It's different," Harry said quietly, and Voldemort smiled down at him, with a very excited expression.

"It's an albino, Harry. They're extremely rare."

As Voldemort picked up on his soft-spoken melody, Harry watched the last Basilisk poke its head out fully, and eventually, snake out of the egg, revealing its pale body, which had yellow markings on the back. Once it was completely out, Voldemort picked it up with deft hands and held it up into the candle light, as to inspect it more closely.

"Magnificent," he breathed out, and as he smiled, his red eyes shone brightly with some intense emotion that, to Harry, looked like deep affection. Once he was done admiring the albino snake, Voldemort put it down into the basket and closed the lid, before carefully levitating the container off the ground, making it follow closely behind him as he walked towards the dungeon door.

"We shall return to the tower," Voldemort instructed, heading out of the room while Harry hurriedly followed. "It would not do to leave the snakes here, and risk somebody happening upon them."

"Why not?" Harry asked, thinking back to his intense study session on Basilisks. "Are they that dangerous already?"

"Oh yes," Voldemort replied with a wicked grin over his shoulder, "quite so. But let us speak more of it once we reach the tower."

As they walked through the dimly lit hallways of the fortress, Harry felt the early hours creep up on him, and he constantly worked his way through enormous yawns. With his worries keeping him up late last night, and then being forced to wake up so early in the morning, only to be put through hard work, had taken its toll on him, and he fought to keep his eyes open once they had made it into the very dark and quiet tower staircase.

At once upon entering the office, Harry headed over to the dark blue sofa and, without further ado, collapsed face down into it with a contented sigh. "You should go back to bed if you're tired, Harry," Voldemort said quietly, standing by his desk, onto which he had placed the basket of snakes. "We can speak later."

Harry had half a mind to get up, but stayed put when he blearily realised that the world swam around him. So he drifted off, burying his face into the plush sofa seat, and barely noticed as a tall shape stole closer, tut-tutting with amused disapproval, before a warm blanket fell down onto his back, wrapping him into the deep folds of sleep.

* * *

Severus was startled out of his deep musings by an insistent _tap tap tap_ on his kitchen window. Stiffly arising from his collapsed position in the sofa, where he had spent the entire night, staring into the wall as he re-arranged his muddled thoughts, he stumbled across the living room and into the kitchen, whipping his wand in an irate gesture to open up the window.

Marcia swooped into the room, screeching indignantly at having had to wait for, what she deemed as, too long, dropping her delivery onto the table and promptly flying out the window again. Severus sank down on his favourite kitchen chair at the table, and whipped his wand to close the window, fill the tea pot with steaming hot water, and to add some tea leaves to it from his cupboards. While he waited for his favoured beverage to brew, he turned to the letter Marcia had dropped off and saw that it carried the Hogwarts seal.

Sighing deeply, he tore it open with the help of a bread knife lying close at hand on the table, and tiredly skimmed it through. It turned out to be a simple list of potions required for the restocking of Hogwarts infirmary – and by association, the Order of the Phoenix – signed by Madam Pomfrey.

He sighed again and banished the list to his cramped basement brewing room, before leaning his elbows on the table and burrowing his head into his hands, clawing at the roots of his slick hair. He had had a terrible night, downing the entire flask of Firewhisky as he mulled over his countless dilemmas, neglecting to sleep in favour of weighing possible solutions back and forth, and infuriatingly, not reaching any satisfying conclusions.

What he had learned last night changed, not only his own position, but the entire chess board. The foundation he had been standing on for years was the firm belief that Potter was safe on the Light side and unsafe on the Dark. Now, as if he had stepped into Alice's Looking-Glass Land, nothing was what it had once appeared to be. The Dark Lord might or might not be a threat to the boy, whereas Dumbledore would become one if he ever learned of the boy's predicament. That Potter was safe with the Dark Lord, Severus highly doubted; it was just as likely that the Dark Lord meant to eventually dispose of him as it was that he meant to protect him. If it was true that the Dark Lord did have Horcruxes, a fact which might be a misleader as well, he might care little if one of them was destroyed. It truly depended on how many he had, and on how much he could gain from having one in human form.

Taking into account that Potter himself had a Horcrux, imbedded in the Dark Lord's soul, there might be possible benefits to the connection, and the Dark Lord might have started to feel, at least some, affection for the boy. However, it might be the case that he simply bided his time until he could remove Potter's soul shard from his own soul, as well as his own from Potter's, and then simply kill the boy.

Severus didn't have any experience with Horcruxes, since his interest in them had completely vanished once he learned that his ability to love would be gone if he ever created one, so he couldn't tell how difficult it would be to transfer a soul shard from one container into another. But he held no delusions; it must be possible. Whether it was possible to do so without killing Potter or not he did not know, but he would have to find out; and soon.

He dug out the little note from his robe pocket and re-read it for the thousandth time. _Is it from Dobby, or from the Dark Lord?_ Severus truly couldn't tell. But it did seem suspicious that, on the same day the Dark Lord had decided to confide in him one of his darkest, most vulnerable secrets, Severus had been dished out a simple way to betray him. If Dobby was indeed under the Dark Lord's thrall, this could very easily be an orchestrated plot to reveal where Severus's true loyalties lay. However, Dobby had time and time again proven to be a very tricky elf with an absurdly strong autonomy during his years at the Malfoy family, and the possibility that he had indeed found a loophole was not out of the question.

He would have to find a way to speak to the elf, and read his mind, before making his decision. And more importantly; he would have to find a way to speak with Potter, privately. Severus couldn't tell how deeply rooted the Dark Lord's deception was in the boy, but it was apparent that he had been manipulated into submission. If Potter indeed had decided to support the Dark cause, it would be tricky to remove him from the Dark Lord's clutches; and moreover, keep him out of them after an eventual escape.

He would also have to learn what security precautions the Dark Lord had taken to prevent Potter's escape. There were most certainly wards to consider, as well as spying creatures or objects used to monitor the boy. But what else? Had the boy been fed potions to ensure his loyalty? Had he been put under mind-altering charms? Had he gone through any form of Bonding Ceremony, or had he signed a contract of any kind?

New Possible Scenarios were slowly built up in Severus's mind, filling in the gaping holes the old ones had left behind, and finally, Severus felt that he had managed to regain his footing. This chess board might be different, but it was still a chess board, and he knew the game well.

With a few swishes of his wand, a cup was summoned from the cupboards and placed in front of him, before the teapot gently flew through the air to fill it up with steaming hot liquid. Severus slowly sipped his tea, feeling how, piece by piece, the strain and fatigue disappeared with every savoury gulp.

Once he was done, he arose, and swiftly made way to his living room fireplace, where he lit a small fire and tossed a handful of Floo Powder into the flames, before sticking his head into the hearth and calling out, "Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore's Office."

He closed his eyes against the sudden rush of sooty air, brushing harshly against his face, and let out a harsh breath once he came to a sudden stop half-way down Dumbledore's chimney; having been blocked out by the wards surrounding the castle. He waited impatiently, listening to the soft chiming of the wards, signalling his call, and finally, he was let through. He emerged in a rush of green flames, and did his best to hold his head still so as not to get a mouthful of ash.

"Good day, Severus," Dumbledore greeted, sitting in a comfortable-looking pink armchair in front of the fireplace. "You're up early, I see."

"Up late, actually, Headmaster," Severus replied tensely. "I was summoned last night."

At once, the relaxed expression on Dumbledore's face slipped off, being exchanged for intent, eagerness and pity. "Oh I see," he said with solemnity. "Well, do come through, Severus. I'll leave it open for you."

"Thank you," Severus replied and swiftly retracted his head, scrunching up his face against the harsh rush, now blowing at him from behind. Standing up from his kneel, he solemnly stepped into the fire and called out his destination, soon stepping out in the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts, flicking his wand at once to rid himself of all the soot stubbornly clinging to his body.

Dumbledore turned to look at him upon his entrance, having stood by one of the windows, petting Fawkes's head absentmindedly. "Some of our old friends are returning," he said with a smile and walked over to his desk to sit down. "Thankfully, not all take the Ministry's point of view at face value."

"That is a relief, at least," Severus drawled and settled in his favourite corner of the room, leaning against the side the stone pillar that stood there. "But the Minister still refuses to meet with you, I take it?"

"Ah, poor Cornelius," said Dumbledore and twinned his hands together, to lean his chin on them. "He has always liked to keep matters simple ... Even just considering the possibility of Lord Voldemort's return –" Severus barely refrained from twitching at the free use of the Dark Lord's name – "is beyond his capacity, it seems. I am afraid that until there comes a time when the Dark joins the open, we shall be forced to work secretly as well. Our possible allies have already been made weary of our cause, and it will not do to push the issue too far, or the Order of the Phoenix might lose more of its credibility."

"Agreed," said Severus. "If the Ministry remain inconvincible, we shall do best in keeping an eye out, to be ready whenever the Dark Lord _does_ decide to strike."

Dumbledore smiled sadly at him. "What did you learn yesterday, Severus?"

"It is as we feared," he replied slowly. "Everything points to him rebuilding his forces. The Dark Lord has recovered completely. He has taken residence in a well-protected stronghold, and he is currently biding his time as his forces from Azkaban get back to health."

"And what of his plans?" Dumbledore asked.

"He did not share his plans, Headmaster," Severus said, feeling a deep tiredness creep up on him as he stood leaning, so instead took to slowly pace the room, just to keep alert. "But I do not see any reason for his plans to be much different from last time. His aim is surely still the same and he is most probably still recruiting with the same sugar-coated promises."

"I see," replied Dumbledore, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "How did he act? Were there any signs of his insanity of old?"

"No," Severus said. "None whatsoever ... which is to be expected – he does have a new body now, after all."

"That is concerning," stated Dumbledore, and looked at Fawkes with distant eyes. Severus hesitated.

"Headmaster ... Is it truly wise?"

At once, he was pierced by Dumbledore's scrutinising blue gaze. "Do you not think so, Severus?"

"I am merely concerned," Severus said through tense lips, "about the consequences ... It seems apparent to me that much pain and suffering could have been avoided ... if not for –"

"– Pain for whom, I wonder?" Dumbledore cut in. "Tragedy as it was for many involved – the war was put to an end, and many lives were saved."

Severus pressed his lips together against his sharp retort and instead made a sharp nod, as if begrudgingly admitting his agreement. "Has the plan been set into motion already, then, Headmaster?"

"I am unsure," Dumbledore claimed and smiled mysteriously. Severus grinded his teeth harshly against each other.

"You do not trust me."

The smile slipped off Dumbledore's lips. "Severus, I beg you not to think ill of me, but I cannot risk that Voldemort learns of this. You will be working in very close proximity to him, being such an important spy, and if he is truly singling you out at the moment, it is too big a risk."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Have I not proven myself worthy of your trust, Headmaster? Time and time again; ever since the time of our Unbreakable Vow?"

"Loyalty and diligence are feats easily achievable in times of peace," Dumbledore claimed solemnly, "but turn far more cruel and demanding in times of war."

"If you are quite done citing Merlin, Headmaster," Severus said with a dark sneer, "I shall take my leave. I have much work to do, if Madam Pomfrey's calculations are to be consulted."

"Just one more thing," Dumbledore called out before Severus could make it back to the fireplace. "What of Harry? Are there any signs of him?"

Slowly, with a deadly calm, Severus turned around to face the Leader of the Light. "No," he replied in a quiet voice. "Not yet."

* * *

Harry watched with a warm smile as the little snake coiled around his hand; smelling with its flickering tongue as it squirmed around on its wild quest, eagerly exploring the world around it. Its dark scales glistened in the sunlight streaming in from the tower's east and south windows respectively, and its yellow eyes glowed with energetic inquisitiveness.

In front of him, sitting on the square table in the middle of the circular room, was the wicker basket, containing the other little snakes; most of them lying coiled up, basking in each other's body heat, while a few snaked around, learning to use their bodies with childish enthusiasm.

Suddenly, and completely soundlessly, Voldemort materialised by the closed door, wearing a black cloak, which he quickly pulled off his shoulders and hung on the coat rack, before walking towards his desk, carrying a rolled up newspaper under his right arm.

"You're back," Harry said once he had gotten over the initial surprise, and Voldemort looked over at him with a smirk.

"You're awake," he returned.

"Err, yeah," Harry answered, carefully putting the Basilisk in his hands down into the basket. "Sorry about, you know ... sleeping down here."

"It was no problem," Voldemort replied offhandedly whilst going through some papers lying on his desk. "I have just come back from Malfoy Manor," he then said, still with his back turned. "Lucius Malfoy has just agreed to become my Ambassador, and shall, from tomorrow on, be manning my study downstairs, relieving me of some of my less pressing work. I thought you should know, so that you do not go looking for me there."

"Oh, all right," said Harry, pausing. "What does an Ambassador do, exactly?"

"Handles social affairs," Voldemort replied, putting the papers down and finally turning around. "Lucius will be my representative of sorts, receiving guests, booking meetings for me and meeting with new recruits. He will also have some tasks akin to those of a secretary." Voldemort smiled and walked up to the other side of the square table. "I am glad to find you interested in these matters, Harry. That bodes well ... So, how are the Basilisks fairing? No complications?"

"Oh ... No, master," Harry replied and gestured towards the basket's innards. "They're doing good."

"Well," Voldemort intoned pointedly as he looked down into the basket, inspecting the health of the snakes. When he got no reply, he looked up at Harry and raised his eyebrows.

"What?" Harry asked, wondering if he'd done anything wrong.

"They are doing _well_ , not good," Voldemort explained with another smirk. "And do refrain from asking for clarification with a simple 'what'. 'Excuse me', 'I beg your pardon' or 'could you repeat that, please' is far superior wording."

Harry frowned. "All right, fine. But what does it matter how I say things?"

"Elegant speech will get you further than you think," Voldemort replied. "As will proper manners and good looks, but knowing how to word something properly is one of the most useful skills one can have."

Harry felt flabbergasted. "So ... you're going lecture me on _grammar_?"

Voldemort chuckled and carefully picked up one of the more energetic snakes out of the basket. "Why does this come as such a surprise to you? Do you not find grammar useful?"

"It just seems so ..." Harry raked his brain for a good word.

" _Muggle?_ " James supplied.

"Normal," Harry decided on. "I thought you wanted to teach me magic."

"Why does one have to exclude the other?" Voldemort replied quietly, with challenge dancing in his eyes as he looked at his young apprentice. "Why conduct complex research when you cannot write good enough essays and books to get published? Why master a subject when you cannot discuss it with others or lecture others on it well enough to make them understand your point of view?"

"I guess," Harry said, trying to get past his surprise. "But then, why don't they teach that at Hogwarts, if it's so useful?"

Voldemort's smile grew, and the glee he radiated made Harry take a mental step back, feeling as if he had stepped right into a trap. "Why don't they, indeed," was the simple reply, and as the silence fell over the room, Harry frowned and pondered on this new revelation.

In Muggle school, he had been taught a great many subjects which his teachers had claimed everybody needed to learn. English, maths, science, geography ... They had stressed how important it was that they learned how to read, how to write and how to count – so why didn't the teachers at Hogwarts think so too?

"Does that mean that ... Don't the kids who grow up in the magical world learn what they teach in Muggle schools?" he asked at length, looking up at Voldemort, who now sported a very neutral expression.

"They don't," he replied quietly. "Not if their parents don't teach them, or decide to send them to a Muggle primary school."

"But that's," Harry exclaimed with a deep frown, trying to wrap his mind around it. "So people like Malfoy – they don't know how do maths?"

"Not very complex maths, at least," Voldemort replied. "Although, I do believe that, in most cases in regards to pure-blood children, their parents employ private tutors to teach them at least some subjects. But yes, most people in magical Britain could not point out India on a map if you asked them to, and if you attempted to speak with them about atoms or chemical elements, they would simply stare at you blankly. In any case, I think it is safe to say that Britain's magical population is far from well educated. But I digress – we were going to speak about the Basilisks, were we not?"

Harry wanted dearly to continue learning more about what wizards did and didn't know, but he found himself even more interested in what Voldemort had to say about the Basilisks, and so swallowed his disagreement. "Yes, master."

"Good," Voldemort replied and carefully let the snake in his hands slide back down into the basket. "Lesson one; do not, ever, handle the snakes on your own. I will excuse that you did so earlier, since you did not know, but it is not a mistake you will want to repeat as long as they are this small at least. Once they grow older, they will have much more control of themselves, and will not accidentally strike at us. As Parselmouths, we are authority figures for them, and they will do our bidding without question. Their loyalty and affection for us will stop them from ever wilfully attacking us – however, accidents do happen. Especially when they are this small. So –" Voldemort stretched out his left hand towards one of the glassed cabinets, making the doors fall open, and a small crystal vial with a transparent liquid inside zoom into his open palm. He held the vial up for Harry to see. "– if something should happen, you must _instantly_ pour these Phoenix tears over the wound. There is no other cure – at least, not until I have managed to perfect the antitoxin. Until that time, we shall both have to stay alert, and not handle the snakes on our own. Agreed?"

Harry swallowed nervously, suddenly very aware of how venomous Basilisks were supposed to be, according to the book he had read about them. "Agreed."

"Lesson two;" Voldemort continued, "do not, ever, travel outside the tower with the Basilisks. As Parselmouths, we are, just like all other species of snakes, immune to their deadly stare. Other humans and animals are not so lucky. Basilisks will not kill everything they look at, but they do have the magical ability to turn any living being into stone. It is a primal sort of magical ability which works whenever they _wish_ for it to. In the wild, Basilisks will only use this when threatened, or when hunting. The stone their victims turn into is made up of a very specific mineral not easily found in most parts of the world, and this is what they feed on. Do you follow?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Yes, master ... But, can I ask something?"

"Of course," replied Voldemort with a small smile.

"I read up a little on Basilisks, but ... the book didn't say anything about Parselmouths being immune to their deadly stare."

"It is not common knowledge," Voldemort said. "Basilisks were outlawed in 835, and have been systematically hunted down and killed ever since. The last documented spotting of a Basilisk was in the 13th century, so people like Newt Scamander and the countless others who wrote about them had very little to go on. There are some very good, old texts on Basilisks, but they have been so poorly translated, from one language to the other, that much information has been lost, and some so called _facts_ have been right out fabricated by superstitious folklore. It is widely believed that, for example, the crowing of a rooster is fatal to a Basilisk. Complete nonsense sprung from an old tale about a Basilisk Hunter whose Animagus form was that of a rooster."

"What's an Animagus?" Harry asked.

Voldemort looked surprised. "It is a wizard who, after intense study, can turn himself into an animal at will. Like, for example, Mr Black, who can become a dog."

Harry nodded. "All right ... So, what will happen to them now? Will you just keep them in this basket until they've grown bigger?"

"Something like that," Voldemort replied mysteriously, but didn't expand on what he meant. "They will be divided into six groups of five, and then put into tanks similar to that of Shamira – a basket is not sufficient housing in the long run. They will be kept in here, and will require to be handled a little time each every day. We will wait a couple of days for them to settle, but eventually, we will conduct a feeding session. Other than that, they will not require any attention – at least not yet."

Under Voldemort's stern commands, Harry helped dividing and placing snakes into the tanks, which turned out to be a fair bit larger than Shamira's; at least double the size. The same kind of wood shaving which had covered the bottom of the basket was spread out inside the tanks as well. In the middle of each tank was a low-rimmed, water filled bowl, and in each of the corners were hollowed out rocks, into which the snakes gladly hid away and settled.

Once they were done, the tanks stood to the right of the cabinets, in two neat stacks with three in each. Inside, the snakes lazily slithered around, popping in and out of their hollow stones and curling up wherever they felt like it with content hisses. Harry smiled looking at them, thinking that, for being deadly beasts, they were awfully cute. _Perhaps Hagrid's opinion on magical pets isn't completely barmy after all_...


	16. Chapter 16

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Sixteen

* * *

Harry headed into the Dining Hall, taking in its enlarged appearance with surprise. The room appeared to be double its former size; both in length and in width, as well as in height. Instead of one long table in the middle, which had housed 23 chairs, there were two long tables, housing about forty chairs each, as well as a small table in the right corner of the room, which looked akin to the Head Table at Hogwarts. It had five chairs, standing in a line facing the two long tables, and the chair in the middle, Harry recognised as being Voldemort's tall backed armchair, which had previously stood at the right end of the former long table.

The room was bustling with people, sitting in groups along the two long tables; people whom Harry, for most part, did not recognise. The ones he did recognise were Healer Abbott and Healer Cartwright, sitting in their usual group of other similarly clad Healers, as well as Quirrell, sitting alone furthest to the right at the Head Table. Apart from those three, Harry saw people he vaguely recognised from having seen them walking around the fortress on their way from one room to the other, or who had been sitting around in either of the parlours one time or the other. Most notable of those was a blond, severe-looking woman whom Harry recognised as Draco Malfoy's mother. She was sitting next to an extremely skinny, dark-haired witch, who was busying herself with violently stabbing a plateful of potatoes with her dinner knife.

Keeping his back straight, pointedly not meeting eyes with anyone, Harry travelled into the room and over to the Head Table, where he sat down on the right side of Voldemort's throne-like chair, smiling gently at Quirrell. "Hello, sir," he said, making Quirrell jump a little, as if he had been too immersed in his own thoughts to make notice of him.

"Oh, P-P-Potter," he said tensely, before sagging his shoulders and letting out a nervous titter. "I thought, for a second ... Never mind – can I pass you something?"

"The meatloaf, please," Harry replied with a light frown, and watched as Quirrell reached out towards the requested dish and pushed it across the table towards him. "Thank you," Harry said before starting to serve himself, thinking that if it had been Voldemort, he would have surely summoned the dish with a simple flick of his hand. "Had a good day?"

Quirrell let out another nervous titter, as if the mere thought of having a 'good day' was laughable. "It'll do. I had a rather interesting discussion about Muggle television with the chieftain of the Ewmog Clan ... Although I doubt he will ever understand the fine machinations of a dramatic soap opera."

"What's the Ewmog clan?" Harry asked while picking out a couple of potatoes.

"Oh," Quirrell uttered, as if surprised by Harry's incomprehension, "one of the largest Troll communities in Britain."

"Trolls!?" Harry exclaimed in a mixture of horror and humour. "You discussed Muggle soap operas with trolls?"

"We had some time to spare," Quirrell replied with a wide smile, "and social relations are quite important in these kinds of circumstances. It was definitely the highlight of the day, although, I must admit, it was a tad weird."

"I bet," Harry said with a grin, imagining the huge troll that had attacked him and his friends at Halloween, sitting down in the flower-printed sofa at the Dursleys to watch Emmerdale.

"And how was your day?" Quirrell asked politely while helping himself to more of the steaming peas.

"It was pretty good," Harry replied rather enthusiastically. "The Basilisks all hatched this morning – oh, did I tell you that was what Master was going to use the toads for? But he's probably told you. There's loads of them – thirty – and they're really cool. Oh, and one's all white – well, sort of purplish – and it's got red eyes. Master said it was an alban something ... no, albino, I think it was called."

Harry paused his tirade, seeing that Quirrell had gone quite pale, staring off into space. Apparently, the news came as quite a shock to him, and Harry suddenly realised that people who weren't Parselmouths were probably pretty scared of Basilisks.

Feeling sorry for having frightened his old professor, Harry decided to change the subject. "Sir?" he said carefully, and waited as Quirrell slowly came out of his trance-like state and looked at him. "Do you know what happened to the room?" he asked once he had the older man's full attention.

Quirrell looked at him in incomprehension at first, but caught on when Harry made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Oh, well ... I think that the D-D-Dark Lord was working on it earlier today, to make room for all the p-p-patients," he replied, looking around the room as if he hadn't taken a closer look at it until now, which made Harry wonder what he had been so busy thinking about before Harry sat down that he hadn't even noticed his changed surroundings. "Quite an impressive feat ..."

"Yeah, it must have taken a while," Harry guessed and took a particularly big bite of food.

Quirrell let out yet another slightly nervous laugh. "Not necessarily. You see, Potter, with as much power as the D-Dark Lord has, something like this is child's play."

"Oh," said Harry, frowning. "How can you tell? Is there a way to see how much power another wizard has?"

Quirrell's entire body stiffened and he turned quite pale, carefully laying down his cutlery, as if he'd suddenly realised that he wasn't hungry anymore. "I ... N-N-No, there isn't, usually," he replied in a quiet voice, looking nervously out at the other people dining in the room. "It is merely ... I-I-I have been experiencing _his_ powers quite in-in-intimately for the past year."

"When he possessed you," Harry said and was instantly pierced by Quirrell's wide brown eyes. "I'm sorry," Harry said, seeing his expression, "I didn't mean to ... It must have been terrible for you."

If possible, Quirrell turned even paler. "N-N-Not at a-a-all! It was an honour to s-s-serve."

Harry was about to call him out on his obvious bluff, but suddenly realised that it probably wasn't a good idea for Quirrell to be speaking ill of Voldemort, and instead leaned back in his chair, averting his eyes. "Yeah, of course," he said quietly, picking up on his eating.

Quirrell, who seemed mildly relieved that he wasn't pressing the subject, slowly arose from his seat. "Good seeing you, Potter. Enjoy your meal." And with that, he hastened out of the room, nervously twinning his hands together.

 _I wonder what's got him so winded up_ , Harry thought to himself, digging in more seriously into his food.

" _Hard to tell_ ," James mused. " _Perhaps he has been saddled with a difficult task ... Or he might be mourning the loss of his freedom._ "

 _Yeah, maybe ... He seems to be as trapped here as I am,_ Harry responded. _Or, well, he can actually leave, when I think about it._

James stayed silent for a couple of tense seconds, and a foreign anxiety started to spread through Harry's body. " _Are you still thinking that way? I thought from our conversation last night that you had finally gotten over it._ "

 _It's not something you just 'get over',_ Harry argued with a frown and winced as he accidentally made a whining sound with his cutlery, scraping against the surface of the plate. _I guess I have sort of accepted that I can't do anything about being here ... And it's not that bad, usually._

The anxious feeling slowly dissipated. " _There you go,_ " said James softly.

 _But that doesn't make it okay for me,_ Harry thought, taking a last bite of his meal and arising from the table. _No matter how you look at it, I'm still trapped here. I might be safe and Voldemort might actually be pretty nice sometimes, but ... I don't know; I just feel like I need to break free somehow._

" _Break free from what?_ " James challenged as Harry walked out of the Dining Hall and headed towards the west tower. " _You would have been just as trapped at Hogwarts – you would still have to follow certain rules there, you would have to study and you wouldn't be allowed to leave the castle's grounds. Here, you can actually study and learn at your own leisure, with a private teacher, and you'll eventually become one of the most powerful wizards in the country at this rate._ "

" _Let me in_ ," Harry hissed and watched the tassel fall down the deep blue drapery. _Yeah, I guess learning all this new stuff is pretty great ... but I just miss everything. Ron, Hermione, Hagrid ... sitting around in the Gryffindor Common Room, eating in the Great Hall ..._

" _Malfoy, Filch ... Being bored to sleep in Binns' class, being terrorised and sabotaged in Snape's class, nearly having your legs chewed off by a drooling three-headed dog,_ " James countered, and Harry couldn't help but smile as he ascended the staircases.

 _Yeah, well, I guess I don't miss everything, exactly_ , he thought as he opened the office door and stepped inside. As he entered, the Basilisks hissed softly at him in greeting, and right after, Voldemort looked up at him from his paperwork, and curled corners of his lips into a small smile.

"Is it done?"

"Yes, master," said Harry quietly and hurried forwards, pulling out the rolled up list he had been working on during the day. "Here," he said, holding it out towards Voldemort, who accepted it and unrolled it with careful fingers.

As he skimmed through it, Harry started fidgeting; he hadn't ever been present when a teacher had read his work before, and he found the experience to be quite nerve-wracking. To his immense relief, Voldemort didn't seem to find any large fault with his work, since he was still smiling once he looked up to meet Harry's eyes again.

"A fairly short list, but not surprisingly so. It is to be expected after a mere year at Hogwarts, and with no previous experience with spells. Did you manage to cast them all?"

"Yes, master," Harry replied, feeling rather satisfied with his accomplishments. "I had some trouble with the Disarming Charm and the Curses, but Dobby allowed me to practice on him, so it worked out."

"Very good, Harry. I am pleased to see that you strive to solve your own problems before seeking out my guidance," Voldemort said and laid the parchment flat onto the table, pointing at the largest chunk of listed spells on it. "It appears as if your arsenal currently consists of an overwhelming amount of Charms. Out of the twenty-six spells you know, fourteen are Charms."

"Yeah," said Harry, nodding as he looked down on the list as well. "But I think that's because Professor McGonagall and Professor Quirrell made us learn Charms in their classes as well ... The Wand-Lighting Charm for example we learned in Defence Against the Dark Arts ... And we learned the Mending Charm in Transfiguration Class ... But many of these, I've learned from you." Harry looked up at Voldemort, who sat leaning back in his chair, listening patiently to him.

"Yes," he said, nodding his head. "How about Transfigurations? You have only listed two."

"Yeah, but that's because it took so long for everyone to learn them," Harry hurried to explain, "and because we worked on other things. Before we were allowed to start Transfiguring things, we had to study some of the theory behind it, and then we had to learn the Reverse-Transfiguration Spell, so that we could turn stuff back when we made mistakes."

"I understand," Voldemort replied quietly, as if speaking to himself. "Transfiguration is a particularly complex subject after all ... But I was expecting something better from the esteemed Professor McGonagall – acclimatization of the students is all and well, but to teach two mere Transfigurations in First Year Class is very ... weak." He looked down at the list again and pointed at one of the scribbles there. "I believe you meant 'The Into-a-Box Transfiguration', not 'Into-a-Snuffbox'."

Harry looked down at the text with a frown. "Professor McGonagall said it was for snuffboxes."

Voldemort looked up at him with an amused expression. "You must have misunderstood – a Transfiguration depends partly on the incantation to indicate to the wand what characteristics the item in question shall have, but it also relies on what the wizard imagines the end result to look like. A Snuffbox has no other function than any other box, and so does not have a particular Transfiguration for it. And the same applies to 'The Into-a-Needle Transfiguration' as well, which should be 'Into-a-Spike'. With that, you can create anything thin and sharp; a spear or a nail for example – a crude sort of knife, possibly."

Harry blinked, feeling astonished at the things he had been able to do, all this time, and never known about. "That's brilliant," he uttered with a grin.

Voldemort smiled back. "Indeed. Your measly Transfiguration arsenal is something we will have to rectify. And you will need to learn some Summoning Spells and Conjurations as well ... You haven't listed any of those ... You also haven't listed any Jinxes or Hexes, but you do know three Curses, apparently?"

"Yeah, well, one I learned from you," Harry said, feeling oddly as if he was supposed to be ashamed for knowing Curses. "The Full Body-Bind Curse ... And Quirrell taught us the Curse of the Bogies in class, as well as the Leg-Locker Curse."

"You don't have to explain, Harry," said Voldemort, sounding a little amused. "It's just magic, all of it. It is merely separated into categories so that we can more easily understand how the spell works and what it does. Curses are just as important to learn as Charms, rest assured. Well," he then said, rolling up the parchment into a scroll again, "I shall be keeping this. However –" He reached into one of his deep robe pockets and extracted a small, leather-bound book, which he then held out for Harry to accept. "– I need you to take this, and write all spells you know into it. After you have learned a new spell, always write it down into this book. It is far easier to memorise and keep track of the spells you know if you keep a list."

Harry was struck by a sudden, warm feeling, spreading in his chest as he accepted the book with a quiet "Thank you." He'd received a gift – just like that. He hadn't needed to beg for it, or work hard to get it. Voldemort had just given it to him because he had thought it would be good if Harry could use it. He clutched the little brown book in his hands for a moment, just looking down at it, before putting it into his own pocket. Looking up, he noticed that Voldemort sat studying him with a thoughtful expression.

"Do you wish to start learning Occlumency?" he asked at length.

Hearing that, Harry couldn't help feeling cheated. _More lessons?_ He felt the corners of his mouth slink downwards and he let out a tiny sigh. "Yes, master."

Voldemort looked hesitant for a moment, but then arose from his seat and gestured at the fireplace, where a crackling fire immediately came alive, casting a soft glow over the room. "Why don't we make ourselves comfortable," Voldemort stated as he strode across the room and regally took a seat in one of the blue velvet armchairs. Following his example, Harry sank down into the sofa, and waited in silence for his next lecture.

"I saw that on your list, you had written down some spells in pairs;" Voldemort began in his soft but sure voice, "the Fire-Making Spell and the Extinguishing Spell, for example. I will assume you did so because some spells have natural contrastive spells – when speaking of Occlumency, Legilimency is that contrast. A Legilimens has the power to intrude somebody else's mind, and thus learn of the recipient's short- and long-term memories, as well as his or her current feelings. To shield oneself from this, one most preferably uses Occlumency."

Voldemort made a pause and looked searchingly at Harry, who nodded back at him to signal that he had understood.

"Occlumency in itself is a varied subject, but it has some core parts, and that is where we'll start. As you must have noticed by now, most spells rely on heavy concentration from the wizard, who has to be in a certain state of mind or think of something very specific to be able to perform them correctly. Occlumency is no different. One has to clear one's mind of all thoughts and emotions in order to lock that state of mind in place with Occlumency. Once you have managed Occlude your feelings, a Legilimens will not be able to read them; the same, of course, applies to memories. So, what I will teach you now is how to discipline your mind."

Harry nodded, feeling relieved that it didn't sound very hard. "All right. What will I have to do?"

"Close your eyes and get into a comfortable position. It will be easiest if you lie down," Voldemort said in a soft voice, keeping silent until Harry had complied. "Relax," he said, dragging out the word and ending it with a softly hissed out s. "Steady your breathing ... Let yourself go completely limp, as if you were going to sleep ... yes, now keep breathing slowly ... slowly ... and feel your body grow heavier ... and heavier ... and heavier ..."

Harry felt himself sink down deeper into the sofa, and his body felt almost numb as he focused on keeping his muscles completely lax. Voldemort's soothing voice rang through his mind, making it feel almost as if he was dreaming, and subconsciously, his breathing slowed down even further.

"Good," said Voldemort in a pleased voice, "stay completely tranquil ... let your mind relax ... push all stray thoughts away ... keep your mind blank ..."

Harry struggled. Disobediently, when told not to, a myriad of images and loose thoughts popped up in his mind, swirling around in a tangled mess. "I can't," Harry whispered, furrowing his brows and growing frustrated.

"Hush," came Voldemort's soothing voice at once, "do not rush into it. Calm yourself ... Do not let any feelings through ... just breathe slowly ... yes, that's it ... and think of nothing."

The room slowly darkened as they kept trying, Harry growing more and more frustrated with himself, until the point when he felt too unhinged to stay silent. "It doesn't work!" he finally exclaimed and snapped his eyes open, sitting up in the sofa and glaring angrily at Voldemort, who raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. "I can't do this kind of stuff!"

"You certainly cannot if you do not follow instructions," Voldemort countered in an infuriatingly calm voice.

"I am!" Harry contradicted heatedly, feeling all his repressed frustration boil to the surface. "I'm doing exactly as you say!"

"I told you to be perfectly calm," Voldemort answered in a dangerously quiet voice. "You are not calm."

"I know!" Harry snapped before burying his head against his bent knees, clutching at his unruly strands of hair, wanting noting more than to start throwing things across the room. "I just can't do it! It's no use! I'm no good!"

"You're giving up?" Harry heard his heart thump heavily in his ears, feeling his entire face heat up with the growing anger. "Don't be pathetic."

"I'm not pathetic!" Harry roared, snapping his head up to glare hatefully at his antagonist.

"Then prove it!" Voldemort slung back at him in a lethal hiss that made Harry's boiling blood freeze up in fear. Gasping for breath, fighting furiously to hold back the bitter tears that wanted to leak out of his eyes, Harry buried his head against his knees again.

"I'm just tired," he defended in a quiet voice. "Can't we do this another time?"

"No," came Voldemort's merciless reply, and Harry clenched his teeth harshly together as disobedient tears started rolling down the sides of his flushed face. "This is exactly what it means to work hard, Harry. When something doesn't come easy for you, it doesn't mean that you cannot do it – it means that it will take some effort for you to succeed. You will get back down on that sofa, and you will calm yourself. I will not accept anything less."

Harry took a couple of deep breaths, frowning deeply so as not to snap back at Voldemort and get punished for it. Once he had managed to steel his temper, he lay back down, glaring at Voldemort all the way down, until the back of his head hit the armrest. Then, he slowly closed his eyes. He felt the tears dry on his cheeks as he focused on slowing his breathing, and it was a great relief once some of the calm came seeping back into his mind, soothing his burning veins. He just lay there, perfectly still, and finally felt his tense muscles start to relax as his breathing turned perfectly calm.

"Yes, Harry. That is it exactly." There was an initial spike of fury at the sound if that voice, but Harry quickly quenched the building flame with a firm swipe. "Now keep your mind perfectly blank."

Keeping up with his calm state of mind, dead set on showing Voldemort exactly how hard he could work, Harry pushed away all intrusive thoughts, focusing completely on the black darkness on the inside of his eyelids.

"Excellent," Voldemort's soft voice praised, and this time, Harry felt elated rather than angry. He'd done it! "Memorise this feeling ... Remember the state of mind you had to be in to get here ... and let it go ... you may open your eyes and sit up when you feel ready."

Feeling emotionally spent, but yet happy with his accomplishment, Harry let his firm hold loosen, and opened his eyes. Contrary to what he had feared, Voldemort did not look at him with disdain, but with thoughtfulness.

"How are you feeling now?"

Harry gulped and suddenly felt rather ashamed. "I'm fine – sorry that I shouted at you."

Voldemort offered him a cold smile. "Yes, you should feel sorry. Unless you learn to control that temper of yours, it will get you into trouble – I hope you realise that I chose to be lenient with you today, since it was your first time delving into this subject. I will not be so forgiving a second time. I hope you remember the punishment we have established for the occurrence of you disrespecting your superiors? Becoming my Apprentice might have put you in high rank, but you still answer to me, and I will punish you if you break that rule."

Harry looked down at his hands, lying in his lap. "Yes, master," he replied sullenly, recalling that one time Voldemort had lost his patience and cursed him with an excruciatingly painful curse.

"Harry," Voldemort intoned, making Harry look up to meet his eyes at once. "Good to see that I have your attention. Now, let me get back to the question I asked before you changed the subject. How are you feeling, beyond 'fine'? You mentioned that you were tired?"

"Yeah," Harry replied slightly uncertainly, "it's been a long day in many ways ... and I've had a lot to work on."

Voldemort hummed in thought and tilted his head slightly to the side, as Harry had realised he was prone to do before asking a particularly tricky question. "How come you still wanted to go ahead with the Occlumency lesson, then, if you were so tired? I distinctly remember asking you beforehand if you wished to do it."

Shooting a hesitant look at his master, and shortly debating with himself whether he would be breaking any rules by speaking his mind, Harry cleared his throat and decided to try his luck. "I didn't think I was allowed to say no, master."

Voldemort blinked. "But I gave you a clear possibility to do so beforehand."

"Yeah, I guess, but ..." Harry took a deep breath. "I didn't think it really was a question, but a sort of instruction ... You haven't really given me a choice before when we've done things, so I just figured it wasn't a question."

"I see," Voldemort replied, tapping his fingers lightly against the armrests of his seat as he pondered on Harry's reply. "Let me make it clear to you, then, that when I ask for your opinion from this point on, I want you to reply truthfully. I have taken it upon myself to treat you to complete honesty, and I think it is only be fair for you to refrain from lying to me in return. Do you not agree?"

"Yeah, that sounds fair," Harry admitted, and continued in a quieter tone. "I didn't mean to lie."

For some reason, that little comment made Voldemort's lips curl into a smile. "Do you think I ask too much of you, Harry?" he then asked in his customary quiet voice.

"Err, well," Harry said, testing the waters, "it's just that it gets a little ... boring to just study all the time."

"I see," Voldemort replied simply, and Harry let out a relieved breath. "What would you have liked to do instead of studying, then?"

"I'm not sure," Harry said. "There's not really a lot for me to do for fun here ..."

Voldemort tilted his head again. "What do you usually do for fun?"

"Well, it depends," Harry said after a short ponder. "At Hogwarts, I usually just hung out with friends – sometimes, I'd play chess with Ron. People were always up to stuff in the Common Room – the twins were holding competitions, people were trading Chocolate Frog Cards and playing Exploding Snap. In the winter, we had some snowball fights. And then there was Quidditch, of course ..."

"And before Hogwarts?" Voldemort asked, shifting in his seat so that he leaned heavily to one side of the armchair.

Feeling a rush of aversion towards sharing that part of his life with somebody else, Harry looked down at his hands and thought of what to say. "Well," he said at last in a quiet voice, "there wasn't much to do at the Dursleys' either ... They mostly made me do chores – telling me not to be lazy, although Dudley never had to do a thing ... I didn't get any toys to play with, but it was pretty easy nicking stuff from Dudley whenever he'd tired of them. He had so many toys that he never realised when something went missing. So I did have stuff to play with, in a way – I got one of those Rubik's Cubes, and a Game Boy, and some nights when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were too occupied watching the telly to notice, I got outside and rode some of Dudley's bikes around the neighbourhood. Those were the best nights ..."

Voldemort sat watching him in silence for a while after Harry had finished his tale, and his scrutinising gaze made Harry look away in discomfort, feeling like he had might have revealed too much. He was startled when Voldemort finally spoke in a voice so quiet, it was nearly a whisper.

"I used to nick stuff as well, when I was little ... I grew up in a Muggle orphanage, and many of the children there received gifts when they did well in class or when they had completed their chores particularly well ... But I never received a thing. My caretakers were highly religious, and when they heard from the other children that I had done something 'unnatural', and that I had scared or hurt them, they concluded that I was possessed by the devil. So they locked me up in the attic whenever the other children complained about me, and they repeatedly had a priest come over to cleanse me of sin ...and they kept threatening me that they would send me to an Asylum if I didn't get my act together."

Harry sat wide-eyed, listening to the story which seemed so similar to his own. "The Dursleys locked me up too," he said as Voldemort made a pause. "Whenever I did something they didn't like, they locked me into the cupboard under the stairs ... and that was where they made me sleep, ever since I was little."

Voldemort looked angry, but there was some sort of softness in his eyes that made Harry feel like it wasn't him he was angry at. "Magical children cannot help performing accidental magic, and the general trend is that their Muggle caretakers cannot cope with it, so they punish the children, and thus repress their magical growth. Just imagine how much control you could have had of your magic had you not been frightened of using it. It is a shame that some magical children have to grow up this way."

"Yeah," Harry said, imagining what his life could have looked like if he hadn't grown up with the Dursleys, but in the Wizarding World instead. After a rather long moment of them both being deep in thought, Harry broke the silence. "How come you were at an orphanage? What happened to your parents?"

Voldemort's red eyes seemed to glow in the dark room as they met his. "My mother died shortly after having me, and my father was a useless Muggle man who neither cared to save her from poverty or check up on me."

Harry couldn't help but stare. "You're not a pure-blood?"

With a bemused smile, Voldemort slowly shook his head. "I'm a half-blood ... just like you."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling dumbfounded. "I had just figured that you'd be one ... since you're taking the pure-bloods' side."

"It's not as much taking the pure-bloods' side as it is taking the wizarding kind's side," Voldemort claimed in an amused voice. "The pure-bloods happen to be the ones who are most open with their wish to keep the Wizarding World distinctly _magical_ , as opposed to a poor copy of the Muggle World. No, I'm taking the _wizards'_ side ... _all_ wizards. So, no, I do not find it strange at all that I am a half-blood. Blood purity matters little, if at all – there is only power, and those too weak to use it. Whether you have a lot of Mana, or a small amount, is not dictated by whether your parents were pure-bloods or mudbloods."

Harry frowned in confusion. "What's a mudblood?"

"Magical children born from a seemingly Muggle line, descending from Squibs, who have travelled out of the Wizarding World and mingled with Muggles."

"Oh," said Harry, and his frown deepened. "Aren't wizards born from Muggles called Muggleborns?"

"It's two words for the same thing," Voldemort explained in a dismissive tone, "but I personally find that 'mudblood', although crude, is more accurate, since the children in question are not born of two Muggles, but a Muggle and a Squib."

"Um, I'm not sure what a Squib is either," Harry confessed, and received a tired sigh from his master.

"What is the use of education if the children do not learn these kinds of things?" Voldemort muttered to himself before answering. "A Squib is a Wizard with so little Mana, no wand will connect with him. He is not a Muggle, because he does have a small about of Magical Mana, still, he cannot perform magic. However, he is not completely useless. He can make potions, for example, and Magical Creatures will take well to his care, but despite this, most Squibs choose to leave the Wizarding World in favour of the Muggle World. This is because they are systematically shunned by Wizards, who do not understand their value. There is no available education for squibs, and it is nearly impossible for one to get employment, and thus earn a living in the Wizarding World. They are also rather dependent on somehow connecting to the Muggle World, since they will have to buy their food, rather than gathering or Conjuring it. Since so many Squibs migrate to the Muggle World, they adjust to it, and often do not tell their children that they are Squibs, rather than Muggles. You see, Magical Mana is a mystical element in the gene pool which is 100 percent dominant. So, if a Muggle and a magical individual have a child, it will either be a wizard or a Squib; never a Muggle ... Ah, I apologise, I digress – I confess that I tend to get quite worked up when speaking about this subject," Voldemort said with crooked smile.

"That's alright," Harry said, "it's interesting – I didn't know it worked like that."

"Most people don't, or Squibs wouldn't be as misunderstood as they are today," Voldemort replied before straightening in his seat and casting a quick look out the window. "It is growing very late. I think it is time to retire."

With that, he arose and walked over to his desk, picking up a couple of documents that he started to skim through. With a yawn, realising exactly how late it must be, Harry arose from his seat as well and slowly headed towards the staircases. Once he had reached the door, he turned around and looked at his preoccupied master. "Good night," he called out softly.

Looking up from his documents, offering a small quirk of the lips, the Dark Lord replied. "Sleep well, Harry."


	17. Chapter 17

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Seventeen

* * *

" _Occulto Ex Visum!_ "

Holding the apple within an inch of his face, Harry studied it carefully. It was a perfectly ordinary red apple, with little light specs here and there, and it was glistening, but not from any successful spell work.

Sighing, he refocused and took a firmer grip on the wand in his right hand, which warmed comfortingly in response to his attention. He held the apple out in front of him, aimed with his wand, and imagined how the fruit blended in with the surroundings.

" _Occulto Ex Visum!_ "

The tip of his wand gently tapped the top of the apple, and for one moment, the glistening surface started to shimmer – but then, the apple was back to normal, as if it had been a mere trick of the eye.

"Do you not find it annoying?"

Frowning at the sudden voice, thinking for one wild moment that it sounded like Hermione, Harry whipped around and came face to face with the enormous tapestry stretching from one side of the Reception Room to the other, all down the opposite wall to the tall windows. Sitting under a great oak merrily smiling up at him was the young girl who tended to follow him around the fortress on Voldemort's orders – her appearance slightly distorted from being portrayed in thick stitches of yarn rather than paint.

"No, I find it a hoot, really," he replied drily, letting his appendages fall to his sides.

The girl chortled childishly. "Do you?" she asked, as if pleasantly surprised. "What about it makes it such a hoot?"

"Well you know, the whole fail-miserably-part," he dead-panned, thinking that she must be pretty stupid to think he was being serious.

After another giggle, the girl arose and walked up closer to the bottom edge of the tapestry, so that her shape grew almost to his own size. Spreading her red lips into a wide smile she peered at him with her heavy-lidded blue eyes. "Yes, of course, you're right," she drawled, and the corners of her lips quirked mischievously, "what would life be without a good amount of hardships and failure?"

"I never liked the simple life, personally," Harry replied, starting to feel amused.

"Is that so?" the girl exclaimed, acting merrily outraged. "Well then I must apologise – I fear I had it all wrong."

Harry let out a short, breathless laugh. "You did?"

"Yes," the girl intoned, twirling a stray lock of her black hair between two fingers. "Nothing very exciting ever happens to you, does it?"

"No, it's all very boring, really," Harry agreed with a grin, which the girl in the tapestry mimicked.

"Obviously," she dead-panned and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Obviously," Harry replied, shaking his head while pocketing the items in his hands. Next, he studied the girl, realising that he had never actually spoken to her before, except for short greetings from time to time. "I'm sorry," he said, "but who are you? I never asked."

"No, you didn't. Not very gallant of you," the girl reprimanded teasingly.

"No, I guess not," Harry admitted, frowning lightly, "it's just that I haven't really spent much time with portraits before."

"No, why would you?" the girl replied in a strangely delighted tone of voice before clearing her throat. "My name is Rebecca Felicia Narcissa Jocosa Ravenclaw."

Harry couldn't help but gape. " _Ravenclaw!?_ " he intoned, receiving a pleased titter in response.

"Oh stop it," she said, throwing out a hand at him, playing at acting embarrassed. "You're sounding like old Master Godric's Sorting Hat."

"Old Master Godric ... Do you mean _Gryffindor_?" Harry exclaimed, subconsciously stepping closer to the tapestry. "Were you at Hogwarts? Wait a second!" He did a double-take as a thought hit him. "This is 'Ravenclaw Fortress', isn't it? You lived here – _they_ lived here! The Ravenclaws! Rowena Ravenclaw!"

Rebecca smiled gently up at him, as if she were enjoying his enthusiasm. "Yes," she simply said after a moment, letting her arms drop to her sides. "She was my mother." Next, she let out another laugh that rang through the room. "You should see the look on your face," she said in between snickers.

Feeling rather silly, Harry snapped his mouth closed and firmly decided to act unaffected. "It's just surprising, that's all," he defended, feeling his treacherous ears start to burn.

"But you knew that this was Ravenclaw Cliff," Rebecca replied teasingly.

"Yeah, well ... I guess I figured it was just a name," Harry said frowning. "I didn't really think about it."

The sound of a group of people moving down the staircase in the Entrance Hall distracted him momentarily, but when they appeared to move past the room and deeper into the fortress he relaxed and turned back to the tapestry, glaring down at Rebecca's cheerful expression.

"Oh sock it!" he snapped and whipped around, stalking over to the other side of the room with furiously burning ears, pointedly ignoring Rebecca's ringing laughter as he held up the apple and his wand again.

" _Occulto Ex Visum!_ "

" _It isn't going to work if you're not concentrating_ ," James commented softly from the back of his mind.

"Oh, Harry, don't be like that," Rebecca called out behind his back.

 _I'm trying_ , Harry thought acidly and took a deep breath, glaring out the window at the grey weather.

"Look, I didn't mean to hurt you ... but you've got to admit; it was pretty oblivious of you."

" _Occulto Ex Visum!_ "

The apple shimmered slightly for one moment.

"Harry! All right, I'm sorry!"

He held it up closer to his eyes and watched the shiny surface, thinking that it's radiant colour seemed to have dulled the tiniest bit.

"Harry!"

"Harry!" echoed another voice.

Frowning, he turned around towards the arched doorway leading out into the Entrance Hall, and saw a woman standing there. She was tall, very thin and had thick black hair cascading down to her hips. She was looking at him with a twisted grin that seemed slightly off, and Harry at once got the distinct feeling he had seen her somewhere before.

"Harry," she repeated in a high-pitched, mindless tone of voice, and tilted her head so much to one side it nearly rested on her right shoulder. "A little boy ... You look familiar ..." She righted her head. "Where is Mummy and Daddy, little Harry?"

She grabbed hold of the heavily laced skirts of her black robes, revealing a pair of high-heeled black boots, before taking a slow step forward. Harry instantly tensed up, feeling extremely unnerved.

" _Straighten up,_ " James urged, sounding just as weary as Harry felt, " _and try to look intimidating._ "

"Pale skin," the woman mused dreamily, taking another step forward. "Black hair." She dropped one side of the skirt and let her hand travel up the corset-like bodice of her robes, putting it to rest over the middle of her stomach. "And a pair of big ... green ... eyes." She giggled delightedly and started to whisper to herself. "They glare at me. How dare they?"

"I'm sorry; can I help you with something, madam?" Harry asked in a voice he forced to sound cool and collected, even though the woman's odd behaviour made him want to bolt.

His voice seemed to break her out of a sort of trance, and her dreamy eyes turned instantly piercing, travelling up from his eyes to his forehead. "A scar," she breathed out in a quiet hiss and took another slow step forward. "A lightning bolt ..." Her head twisted suddenly sharply to the side. "Hollow crack!" Her head twisted sharply in the opposite direction. "Heavy heart!" And again. "Blinding light!" And again. "Empty house!" And again. "Master gone!"

" _Harry, you need to get out of here. Now!_ "

"Harry Potter," the woman breathed out, going completely still with a predatory look on her face. Then, she reached into a deep robe pocket and pulled out a slim, slate grey wand, which she aimed straight at him.

" _Dodge!_ "

Not thinking twice, Harry jumped to the side, just as a venomous-looking yellow-beamed spell shot out of the woman's wand, rushing past his right shoulder.

" _Protego!_ " Harry called out and held up his wand towards his attacker as he rushed towards the side door leading into the West Parlour. The impact of another spell hitting his Shield Charm threw him off his feet, and he rolled painfully across the stone floor, watching wide-eyed as yet another yellow-beamed spell came charging his way.

The next instant, there were three sharp _pops_ , and three little creatures appeared in front of him, holding their hands up in halting gestures. The moment the spell reached them, it dissipated, and the woman let out a furious roar. "You _dare_ interfere, elves!?" she screeched and pointed her wand at Grimly, who was standing the closest to her. " _Crucio!_ "

With a terrible howl of pain, the stocky little elf fell to the floor, thrashing this way and that; and to Harry's horrification, the other elves didn't move a muscle to help him. "What are you doing!?" Harry exclaimed and hurriedly scurried back onto his feet. "Help him!"

"We elves must protect Harry Potter, sir," Dobby squeaked and glanced up at him with fearful eyes. "It's master's orders, sir."

Fretfully, Harry pushed past him and aimed his wand right at the crazed woman, who looked nauseatingly thrilled. " _Petrificus Totalus!_ " he intoned and could feel his wand warm up, draining him of the appropriate amount of Mana, before the curse shot off – but then, quick as a viper, the woman slashed her own wand to the side, turning her attention to him with an excited grin – and at the same time, Grimly's desperate cries died down to whimpers.

"You want to play, little Harry?" the woman challenged in a sing-song voice, before suddenly vanishing from view.

Wide-eyed, Harry whipped around, hearing her crazed cackles coming from varying parts of the room in quick succession.

" _Harry, just run!_ " James urged fretfully, and feeling his heart slam harshly in his chest, Harry sprinted towards the West Parlour door, only for it to slam shut in his face.

" _Alohomora!_ " he tried desperately, but nothing happened. Then, there was another mirthful cackle behind his back, and when he whipped around, he saw that all the elves lay unmoving on the ground. The sight filled his veins with ice-cold fear, and he became instantly rigid, wondering if they were dead.

He was startled out of his stunned state when the side-door to his left slammed sharply shut, but before he could attempt to rush across the room to the main entrance, the woman materialised not three steps in front of him. Clenching his teeth, Harry raised his wand and pointed it right between her eyes, which made the woman gasp and throw her hands in the air, crossing them over her head as she mimicked being tied up. "Oh no!" she uttered melodramatically. "You've got me!"

" _Expelliarmus!_ " Harry cried desperately, watching frantically as the red-beamed spell shot out of his wand, but right before it made impact, the woman slashed her hands downwards, making the beam zoom right back at him. It hit him in the chest, and at once, his wand was ripped out of his hand and flew right into the waiting left hand of his assaulter.

"Oops," the woman said with an apologetic expression. The next moment, she was wickedly grinning, slowly slipping closer and closer to Harry, who stood perfectly still, rigidly keeping his back straight. Once she stood toe to toe with him, she leaned in and tenderly traced her long and bony index finger down the side of his face. "Did you enjoy our little game, Harry?" she asked softly. "Oh no, don't pout now," she said with a tut-tut and grabbed his chin while pointing her wand harshly into his neck. "We can't all be winners – that's not how games work. There will always be losers, and a winner to claim the prize." She laughed manically, and her dark brown eyes were swirling with evil intent.

Finally, Harry felt his resolve crumble, and he pressed his eyes firmly shut, breathing harshly through his nose as he clenched his teeth together against the desperate urge to plead.

"Now, what should we play next? Perhaps a –"

In a rush, Harry was suddenly released, and snapped his eyes open as he heard the woman let out a high-pitched screech. He saw her fly in an arch through the air and crash harshly to the floor in the middle of the room, where Voldemort stood looking down at her with a thunderous expression. A deep wave of relief washed over Harry's body seeing his master, and he tiredly slumped back against the wall behind him, thinking that finally, he was safe.

"Master!" the woman exclaimed and rolled onto her belly, grasping the hem of Voldemort's robes and kissing it repeatedly. "I found him! I found the Potter boy! He will pay for what he did to you, master. He's right there!" she exclaimed gleefully and pointed straight at Harry, aiming true even though her eyes were still locked on Voldemort's face.

"And why," replied Voldemort in a very cold and very slow voice, "do you think that I was not already aware of this fact when the place where you 'found him' happens to be my very own fortress?"

The woman seemed lost for words, sitting on her knees at Voldemort's feet, clutching the bottom of his robes to her chest. "Have I displeased you, master?" she whispered, looking akin to a kicked puppy.

"Oh yes, Bellatrix, you have," Voldemort hissed and grabbed hold of a fistful of her hair, pulling her face very close to his own. "What possessed you to attack what belongs to the Dark Lord? Do you find it appropriate for a mere Death Eater to lay hand on Lord Voldemort's apprentice?"

After a short moment of tense silence, Bellatrix opened her mouth wide and threw her head back in an insane bout of laughter. With a disgusted expression, Voldemort pushed her roughly away from him and, to Harry's horror, Disapparated, leaving him alone, cowering in a corner with the insanely dangerous witch lying cackling on the floor.

To his immense relief, Voldemort returned not one moment later, holding the right arm of Malfoy's pale mother in a vice grip. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded harshly and turned her so that she stood face to face with the insanely giggling Bellatrix. In that instant, Harry recalled where he had seen the dark witch before – the previous day, sitting next to Malfoy's mother in the Dining Hall, stabbing a bunch of potatoes.

"Oh I am so, so sorry, my Lord," Mrs Malfoy exclaimed, lifting a pale, long-fingered hand in front of her delicate mouth, looking up at Voldemort with fearful blue eyes. "Whatever she has done, I shall take full responsibility for it. I was only away for a short moment, to check on Draco; I only just got back. She must have slipped out."

"I see," Voldemort replied in a little too calm voice and let go Mrs Malfoy's arm, which he patted softly before stepping back. "And why, if I might ask, is she in the possession of a wand?"

"I am sorry, my Lord, I had thought that she was doing better lately," Mrs Malfoy responded quietly. "She has been begging for a wand, my Lord, ever since the breakout, and I found it cruel to deprive her of it when she has been forced to live without for so long."

"How very gallant of you," Voldemort said with a neutral expression, "and how very unintelligent. You said you would assume all responsibility for what your sister has been up to, did you not?"

Mrs Malfoy visibly trembled, but held her head high. "Yes, my Lord."

The corners of Voldemort's lips curled in cruel amusement. "And are you aware of what punishment I have promised to bestow upon the next person to assault my apprentice?"

The look on Mrs Malfoy's face was one of utmost horror, and she swayed as if faint before falling to her knees with a sob. "My Lord, please, I beg of you. Show mercy." At her sister's desperate plea, Bellatrix fell silent and sat up, looking between Mrs Malfoy and Voldemort with a confused expression.

"So you do know," was Voldemort's pitiless response. "The punishment for traitors ... I have always found being burned alive to be one of the most gruesome fates ..."

That statement reduced Mrs Malfoy to tears. "Wait!" Harry exclaimed and hastened to step away from the wall. "She's not done anything!"

"Are you unharmed?" Voldemort snapped back, turning to look at him with a vicious expression.

"I'm fine!" Harry stressed, casting a quick look at the fallen house-elves. "But I don't think they are."

"And were you seen?" Voldemort pressed, swooping down on him and scrutinizing him closely, not paying the fate of the house-elves any heed.

"No, it was just us!"

"And can you forgive Bellatrix for attacking you?"

Harry swallowed thickly and glanced past Voldemort and at the very dissimilar sisters, one who looked absolutely crushed and the other who was staring off into space with a vacant expression. "Yes," he replied, meeting eyes with Voldemort. "She's not right in the head, is she?"

Voldemort studied him for a moment longer, but then he whipped around and pierced Mrs Malfoy with a demanding glare. "Consider yourself lucky. This shall not be spoken of, and if it ever happens again, be prepared to be punished tenfold."

Mrs Malfoy looked right about ready to faint with relief. "Oh thank you, my Lord. Thank you!" she whimpered and shakily got back on her feet, dusting off the skirt of her light green robes as she kept murmuring her praises. Then, she grabbed a harsh hold of her sister's arm and hauled her up off the ground, before dragging her along out of the room and into safety.

When they were gone, Voldemort clamped his hands down on Harry's shoulders and looked down at him with a dark countenance. "Were you telling the truth? Are you unharmed?" he demanded in a fervent hiss.

"I'm fine," Harry insisted, trying half-heartedly to struggle out of the hold, to no avail, as it only made Voldemort clutch onto him harder. Then, a strong thumb under his chin pushed his head backwards.

"You've got bruises," Voldemort observed in a cold voice before Harry wrenched his head to the side.

"It's just from when she poked me with her wand," he explained frowning. "It's nothing!"

Voldemort's glowing red eyes narrowed into a glare. "Explain," he demanded. "What happened?"

"Shouldn't you take a look at the elves first?" Harry asked in a voice laced with worry. "I'm not sure what happened to them."

"They're stunned, no doubt," Voldemort claimed dismissively. "It is extremely poor etiquette to kill somebody else's house-elves."

"But how can you be sure?" Harry defended in outrage. "She's insane! How do you know she cares about etiquette?"

"Watch your tone," Voldemort hissed at him with a stare that made him lose his nerve completely. After a tense moment of heavy silence, Voldemort let go of him and whipped his wand in the elves' direction. As one, the three of them awoke and flew to their feet, twisting their heads this way and that, as if believing they were still under assault. "Elves," Voldemort called out, making them all freeze up and turn to their livid master. "You have failed in your duties. I am most displeased with you, and will expect that you all punish yourselves accordingly."

"Yes, master," the elves replied in quick succession, before disappearing with a coordinated little _pop-pop-pop_.

Once they were gone, Voldemort took a firm hold of Harry's upper arm and Apparated to the West Tower. There, he let go of his charge and undid the clasp of his travelling cloak, which he then tossed into the air, making it fly across the room and hang itself on the coat rack.

"Now, where were we? Oh yes," he then hissed, turning to glare at Harry, "you were going to tell me what happened."

Feeling deeply unnerved by having Voldemort's wrath directed at himself for the first time in days, Harry averted his gaze and started fiddling with the hem of his right sleeve. "Well, I was practicing on the Disillusionment Charm ... and then she came in. She was speaking to herself, and she didn't react when I asked her what she wanted ... And then, she saw my scar, and ... well I guess she recognised me ... and then she started throwing spells at me. The house-elves appeared, and they stopped her curses, so she became angry and cursed Grimly, but Dobby and Bleak wouldn't help him, so I tried to curse her with the Full Body-Bind Curse ... but she only laughed at me and said ... well, she said that we were going to play a game ... and then I tried to run, but it was no use. She cornered me in no time ... And, well, then you arrived."

"And at what point did the house-elves fail to protect you?" Voldemort inquired after a short moment's silence.

Harry scowled and chanced a glance at his master. "They tried, all right? It wasn't their fault."

"Whether or not they tried, they failed to do my bidding," Voldemort replied icily. "They deserve to be punished – and even more so because they failed at what I had made clear was their most important duty. Your safety is to be prioritised, and since it seems that my current precautions are not enough in the occasions when I am personally not present this needs to be fixed. So I ask you again; at what point did the house-elves fail to protect you?"

"After _she_ said that we should play a game," Harry said sullenly, "she Disillusioned herself, so we couldn't see her ... I ran for the door, but it closed before I could get to it, and when I turned around the house-elves lay on the floor."

"I see," Voldemort replied, and in an undertone, he hissed "Useless creatures!" to himself.

"Master," said Harry timidly after a moment, "if you weren't here ... how did you know that I needed help?"

After looking down at him with a scrutinising glance, Voldemort's eyes filled up with some humour before he smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he replied mysteriously before straightening. "How is your spell work coming along? Have you mastered the Disillusionment Charm yet?"

"No, master," Harry replied after sending him a dark glare. "But, what did you –"

"Very well, then you shall stay here and keep practicing until you learn it," Voldemort dictated and produced Harry's lost wand out of thin air, holding it out handle first.

"Thanks," said Harry, accepting it. "But –"

"I shall have a word with Lucius about what the expression 'holding the fort' means." And with that, he Disapparated, leaving Harry behind, with his questions unanswered.

A while after Voldemort had left, Rebecca rushed into the painting over the sofa-group, inquiring after his health and explaining that she had been running around the whole fortress looking for Voldemort. After Harry had assured her of his good health and explained that Voldemort had been away, she settled down in her frame and promptly fell asleep, as if she had tired herself out.

Ever so slowly calming down from his run-in with Bellatrix, Harry focused on learning his assigned spell, and at last succeeded in making the red apple disappear from view. Of course, once Voldemort came back from his supposedly very stern meeting with Mr Malfoy, Harry had lost track of it. But with a simple flick of his hand, Voldemort summoned it, and held it up into the light of the candles to inspect his apprentice's handiwork.

"Not bad," he concluded, "but I think a little more practice is needed. If you look closely, the surface still shimmers – watch." He held the apple out in front of Harry's face, moving it from side to side, and Harry had to admit that he saw a slight haze in the air – like one would watching a road of a very hot day.

"Why does it do that?" Harry asked with a frown.

Voldemort smiled and handed the apple over, before striding across the room to his desk. "You either used the tiniest bit too much or too little Mana," he explained before bending down and pulling out one of the lower drawers in the desk. Out of it, he pulled out what looked like a present, wrapped in black wrapping paper and adorned with silver string that curled down its sides. "For you," Voldemort declared and handed the rectangular, rather flat package over to Harry, who looked down at it with wide eyes.

"Thank you," he breathed out with revere, wondering what he had done to deserve a gift out of the blue. "What is it?"

"Why don't you open it and have a look?" Voldemort suggested in a teasing tone of voice, leaning back against the desktop and crossing his arms over his chest with an expectant expression on his face.

Carefully, Harry untied the string, peeled off the wrapping paper and pried the gold and red box within open. With wide eyes, he took in the box's contents. "It's ... Is it?" he rasped out, just staring.

"Well," Voldemort replied with a short chuckle, "you did ask me to provide some sort of entertainment for you, and you _have_ been on your best behaviour lately, so I think you deserve a little reward."

In a wild rush of joy and gratitude, Harry sprang forward and wrapped his arms around Voldemort's waist, momentarily losing all control of himself. "Thank you! Thank you so much!" he exclaimed, before stopping short, freezing up with the sudden realisation that he had just wrapped _Voldemort_ into a bone-crushing hug. Quickly, he let go and stumbled backwards, blushing furiously and clutching the gift compulsively. "I'm sorry," he wheezed out in mortification, and took in Voldemort's extremely tense and slightly pale form with growing anxiety. "I'm sorry, master," he repeated, looking down at the floor and backing away a little further. "I didn't ... I don't know why I did that."

There was a long, painfully quiet pause, before Voldemort's soft, perfectly neutral voice broke the silence. "You should try it out. There's still some time left before dinner is served."

Harry chanced a glance up from the floor and saw, with quite some relief, that Voldemort now looked perfectly unfazed by the overly familiar gesture of gratitude. Hesitantly, he smiled. "Could I? Then, will you engorge it for me, please?"

"I do not see why you cannot do it yourself," Voldemort replied and raised his eyebrows.

"I could ... but I _really_ don't want something to go wrong," Harry explained and held the box out towards his master. With a little sigh, Voldemort dropped his arms and accepted the box, before picking out the shrunken gift and returning it to its former size with a swift swirl of his wand. Then, he handed it and the box over to Harry, who accepted them greedily.

Clasping the glossy wooden shaft of his brand new Nimbus 2001 and picking out the golden snitch out of the box, Harry grinned excitedly and threw a glance at the nearest window. "Could I exit through there?"

Voldemort let out a disbelieving snort. "You're really not afraid of heights, are you?"

"No," said Harry with another grin. Shaking his head, Voldemort gestured with his left hand towards the window, which sprung open at his command, and with an excited laugh, Harry mounted his broom and shot off into the open.

He rushed through the air at a speed that was both strikingly familiar and thrillingly new as he sped up to speeds his Nimbus 2000 had never reached. With a whoop he made a daring loop in the air, laughing away at the breathtaking feeling in his stomach. Coming out of a series of corkscrews, he zoomed around the fortress and down the steep cliff wall to where the dark caves were, trailing so close to the shoreline he could reach down and touch the water with his left hand.

Once he had made a half-circuit around the island, coming up to the rocky pier, he ascended with an excited grin and turned the broomstick steeply upwards, wondering how high he could get. As if shot out of a cannon, he flew up, up and up. Past the sparse forest and over the top of the pointed West Tower roof. As he got higher and higher, a nagging sense of anxiety started to pick at him, and he started to question his decision. How far could he get? Would he be able to pass through the wards? Was this a chance for him to escape? Had Voldemort made a mistake?

Getting higher and higher, his heart started hammering in his chest, and subconsciously, he made the broom slow down ever so slightly. He threw a glance over his shoulder, down at the grey fortress, and was assaulted by a strange sense of regret. But he kept going. He had to know. He had to see how far he could get. He needed to see where the walls that caged him lay.

It was with a rough suddenness that the broom suddenly came to a halt, and reaching out with his right hand, Harry felt an odd surface in the air which he could not break through. The edge of the wards, he realised, and let out a little sigh. With confusing feelings of disappointment and relief, he started descending and was soon back on relatively low height, hovering right above the tallest of the fir-trees on the island.

There, he dug out the golden snitch out of his right robe pocket and let it go, starting a game of cat and mouse that lasted for several thrilling hours. As the day wore on to evening, the setting sun broke through the thick cloud-cover, shining in brilliant hues of orange, gold and pink, and catching the snitch for the hundredth time, Harry felt his stomach clench with hunger and resigned to the fact that it was probably about dinner time anyway.

Starting to descend, aiming for the large front doors of the fortress, Harry caught sight of a very familiar dark shape moving up the slim country road from the pier. With determination, he switched direction, and landed just behind the man he had been anxiously waiting for ever since their last meeting.

"Professor!" he called out, and whipping around violently, Snape faced him, looking startled. Then, he looked down at the broomstick at Harry's side and twisted his face into an ugly sneer.

"Out for a nice evening flight, Potter?" he asked tensely and moved shiftily closer. "How very ... convenient."

The sheer contempt in his voice sparkled alive some irritation in Harry's mind. "What do you mean 'convenient'"? he asked and frowned when Snape didn't reply, but only made a sharp jab with the side of his head towards the shrubbery on the side of the road before heading that way, clearing expecting Harry to follow.

With a sigh, having half-a-mind to refuse, Harry trekked into the pine forest, following the bat-like wizard until they were both completely obscured by the greenery. Then, Snape whipped around and cast several non-verbal spells in quick succession. "There," he said quietly, "now, Potter –"

"Professor," Harry interrupted, eager to ask the question that had been nagging at him in the back of his mind for days, "are you a Death Eater?"

He watched the shade of Snape's face go from a sickly yellow to grey, recognising colour-changes as a bad sign from having witnessed countless of Uncle Vernon's outbursts. Snape turned out to be no different.

"Insolent brat," he hissed out acidly and grabbed a painful hold of the hair atop Harry's head with claw-like fingers. "Do keep your tactless little mouth shut – I think it's for the best."

Wrenching free of Snape's cruel hold, Harry glared up at him, but bit his teeth together and didn't say a word.

"Tell me, Potter," Snape hissed out, stalking around him as if he were pray, "have you enjoyed your stay here? Your little vacation?"

"I thought you wanted me to keep quiet, Professor," Harry replied in a clipped tone, and watched with dark satisfaction how Snape's face twisted, making him look like he had just swallowed a lemon.

"Just like your father," Snape wore on. "So desperate for attention."

"That's not true," Harry defended in a growl, to which Snape scoffed snidely.

"Oh but it is, Potter. Why else would you fall so pathetically under the Dark Lord's thrall?"

"I'm not under his thrall!" Harry exclaimed heatedly. "And I'm not pathetic!"

"What was it then that I saw two mere days ago, when you so keenly followed his orders, like an obedient little lapdog?" Snape challenged, leaning in so close to Harry's face he could smell his foul breath.

"Shut up!" Harry demanded furiously. "It's not like that!"

"Isn't it?" hissed Snape through his clenched, yellowing teeth. "You call him 'master'. Do you know who else have called him that in the past? Mindless servants who have given themselves over completely for him to do whatever he wish with."

"I don't do it because I want to, you greasy old bat!" Harry roared in a mindless fury at the sheer unfairness of Snape's accusations. "I have to! Or he'll bury me alive somewhere, and keep me there forever! He doesn't need me to be happy and healthy – he just needs me to stay alive. And if I don't behave, he'll just stop bothering with me, and it'll be over. I won't see the light of day again!"

Snape studied him with a pensive expression while Harry stood panting, livid enough to want to storm away and not look back, but he still wanted an answer to his initial question, so he remained. Once he had regained some control of himself, he made another attempt. "Now, will _you_ tell _me_ , Professor, if you are a Death Eater or not?"

With a cold sneer, Snape pulled back the sleeve of his left arm, revealing an ugly black tattoo that Harry vaguely recognised. After a moment's contemplation, he realised that he had seen a tattoo just like it on Quirrell's arm that day when he had been acquainting himself with the fortress. "So it's true then ... You've been on _his_ side all along ..." Harry demanded uncertainly, but Snape merely dropped his sleeve and ignored the question.

"Was that all he had to do, Potter?" he asked snidely. "Did he simply have to make a couple of threats, and that made you give up?"

Harry looked at him suspiciously. Why was he asking so many questions? If he was a Death Eater, that meant that he was truly loyal to Voldemort, didn't it? Was he going to go tell Voldemort what Harry had said after this? "He didn't give me a choice," he replied carefully, suddenly very wary about saying something that would make Voldemort angry with him. "And he made me sign a contract."

Snape's dark eyes widened marginally for one short moment, but otherwise, he showed no reaction to the revelation. "And what did that contract entail?" he just asked in a completely emotionless voice.

"Why should I tell you?" Harry hissed out in his old professor's face. "Is this a test? Are you trying to see how easily I'll give up information? Are you going to tell master all about this later?"

"Don't call him that!" Snape hissed back in a vicious voice. "Use 'the Dark Lord' when he is not present."

Harry glared right back at him. "I have to call him that, _Professor_ , and you don't get to give me orders." He took a step back and straightened up, doing his best to look authoritative. "I am the Dark Lord's apprentice, second only to him in rank, and I don't have to listen to _anything_ you have to say."

And with that, he charged out of the shrubbery and hurried up the country road, muttering under his breath about sneaky dungeon bats and their slippery schemes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Eighteen

* * *

A chilling wind stole through the sparse shrubbery around him, making the pine branches sway above his head and his cloak billow out around his body, like a pair of black wings. Letting his forced anger seep away, he watched Potter march up to the fortress and smirked with accomplishment. The boy might seem different, but deep down, he was still the same; strongly driven by his emotions, and thus easily manipulated, and he had told Severus exactly what he needed to know.

The nature of their interaction would keep Severus' plans relatively safe, on the occasion that the Dark Lord would take a tour inside Potter's defenceless mind. All he would see would be a brawl, during which Severus scolded Potter for giving in to pressure, and it would be muddled around the edges by Potter's fury ... Severus frowned.

However ... Potter's parting comment was troubling, since it hinted at a certain acceptance of his current situation ... and the sudden sharpness at the end of their interaction might arise some suspicion upon the Dark Lord's scrutiny – questioning motives was a new trait of Potter's which Severus hadn't foreseen. Generally speaking, Severus considered it a relief that the boy had learned to _think_ at last, but in this particular case, it worked against him.

Severus had counted on Potter having a temper tantrum once he saw the Dark Mark, but instead, it had made him suspicious. If the Dark Lord saw that part of the interaction in Potter's mind, it might make him suspicious in turn – for completely different reasons, naturally. The Dark Lord already knew of Severus' true opinions, so he would not find it odd that Severus berated Potter for resigning so easily to the murderer of his parents. However, the fact that Potter had caught on to his inquisitiveness, which would sharpen that particular part of the memory in his mind, might make the Dark Lord understand that he was trying to fish for information on the nature of Potter's imprisonment.

If the Dark Lord was behind the note from Dobby, it would be proof to him that Severus was going to attempt a rescue. If the Dark Lord was unaware of Dobby's schemes, it might make him doubt Severus' loyalty and thus usefulness. Hence, Severus would be forced to adjust his plans a little, and bring the meeting up with the Dark Lord himself ... _How troublesome._

Sighing, Severus dug out his silver pocket watch and flicked the lid open, seeing that he had little time to spare until seven. Coming to a quick decision, he snapped the lid closed, made sure the Privacy Wards were still in place and called out "Dobby!"

A few seconds passed by, but then, there was a distinct _pop_ to his side. Looking down, Severus couldn't help but stare. The little elf was completely covered in bruises, cuts and bandages. Both his bulging green eyes were blackened and judging by his posture, he was in terrible pain. "Mr Snape, sir!" he exclaimed. "Dobby was hoping that he should run into Mr Snape again, and that Mr Snape had a reply to Dobby's note."

"Have you displeased your master?" Severus asked instead of answering, and Dobby looked up at him tearfully.

"Dobby has, Mr Snape, sir," he piped out thickly. "Dobby and Bleak and Grimly all had to be punished, sir."

"For what?" Severus asked, narrowing his eyes.

"For failing to protect Harry Potter," Dobby replied with a sob, and his entire body started to shiver.

"He needed protection?" Severus demanded sharply.

Dobby nodded vigorously. "He was attacked," he choked out, "by Mrs Lestrange, sir."

Hearing that name, Severus sneered darkly. Bellatrix and he had never gotten along – ever since Hogwarts. She had scorned his friendship with Lily on more than one occasion, and had openly challenged his alliances to the Dark Side in the middle of the Slytherin Common Room. As a junior student, Severus had worked hard to prove his worth, gaining friends in Slytherin to prove himself; and yet, Bellatrix had remained unconvinced. Her mistrust had spread reservation among many students which had lingered, even after her graduation.

"And did Mrs Lestrange _harm_ him?" he asked in a clipped tone, watching Dobby's eyes go wide as saucers.

"No! No sir! Mrs Lestrange was stopped by master ... Master was very angry."

Severus breathed out a short breath of relief out of his nose, and nodded once. "Very well ... Drink this." He dug a small vial of clear liquid out the hidden pocket in his right sleeve and handed it over to Dobby, who was still weeping, but who accepted it and, without question, readily downed the potion. Watching the elf's expression closely, Severus retrieved the vial and waited a couple of seconds until the signs of the Veritaserum taking effect became visible; a slight slackening of the jaw, the eyes growing distant, and the coloration of the skin growing ever so slightly paler. "Did you write me that note?"

Slowly, Dobby nodded his head, not sobbing any more. "Yes, Mr Snape, sir. Dobby did."

"And did you write the note because the Dark Lord or somebody else made you do it?"

"No, sir. Dobby did it himself, because Dobby thought that Mr Severus Snape could help Harry Potter escape, sir. Master mustn't know about Dobby's note, so Dobby was being very quiet, writing in complete darkness in the closet," Dobby replied, blinking a little; already, the Veritaserum was losing its power. Choosing to bring such a small dose had been necessary since Severus didn't want the elf to show any signs of it after their talk, but as a consequence, he would have to move quickly.

"What did the Dark Lord demand of you when he cursed you?" he hurriedly asked, pleased that Dobby had taken precautions in case the Dark Lord decided to Legilimise him.

"That Dobby would be loyal, first and foremost, to him, sir," Dobby replied solemnly.

Hearing the revelation, Severus made an involuntary shiver and turned extremely suspicious. "Did you find a loophole?" he asked, watching the elf's blinking grow in intensity; he was nearly free from its influence.

"Dobby did." Relief flooded over Severus like a soothing balm. Then, the Dark Lord was, most likely, unaware of Dobby's plan. Showing no outward reaction, he watched how the potion's effects seeped away, and how a determined expression sharpened Dobby's gaze. "Dobby learned that master needs to keep Harry Potter safe at all cost, and Dobby knows that Harry Potter is not safe here. What happened today is proof of that. Removing him from danger is in master's best interest, and he has not yet forbidden Dobby to Apparate with Harry Potter inside the wards, sir."

Severus looked down at the elf, evaluating his sincerity from the emotions he could gleam from his mind. Sadly, the time was running short, so he would not be able to Legilimise the elf to any length, but from what he could see, Dobby appeared to be completely sincere.

"Very well," Severus said, taking out his wand, "I need you to think very hard on this meeting – from start to finish. I will remove the memory from your mind so that the Dark Lord cannot see it. Obliviation will not suffice this time, since the Mind Wed can be broken and the memories retrieved – especially by such strong a Legilimens."

Dobby looked up at Severus with determination. "Does Mr Snape agree to help Dobby save Harry Potter then, sir?"

"Yes," Severus whispered and levelled his wand at Dobby's head, waiting until the elf had closed his eyes. Then, he cast a nonverbal Memory Extraction Spell, pulling out a silvery string from Dobby's naked scalp and put it into the empty Veritaserum vial. He watched Dobby blink excessively as he stuffed the vial back into his sleeve, and had just dispelled the wards and put away his wand when the elf's eyes cleared.

"Mr Snape, sir," he exclaimed with surprise. "Dobby was –"

"I am afraid I am running late," Severus interrupted sharply, glaring down at the elf so that he wouldn't be tempted to say anything further. "I need to know where to find the Dark Lord, since I do not have the time to run about the entire fortress for him before our appointed meeting."

"Master is in the First Floor Sitting Room; the small one," Dobby replied in a hesitant tone, before continuing in a stronger voice. "Dobby can lead you there; Dobby wishes to –"

"By the looks of you, you are not fit to lead anyone anywhere; even less so at a reasonable pace," Severus said coldly with a disdainful glance at Dobby's maimed body. "Just tell me how to get there."

"Walk up the staircase to the First Floor," Dobby instructed in a defeated tone of voice, "then turn left and head down the corridor until it splits in two. Turn right and then take the door immediately to the left."

Without another word, Severus turned on his heel and walked out of the shrubbery. As he hurried up the slim road, he took out his pocket watch again and swore under his breath; five past seven. He'd have to make up an excuse. Running into Potter had truly been very convenient, (a little _too_ convenient, even,) and he had done his best to use the chance when he got it, but it had also forced him to rush through his planned course of action. And yet, it had not been enough.

Along the way, he met a group of dark-clad people he vaguely recognised headed down towards the pier, and nodded shortly to them in greeting. Inside the fortress, following Dobby's directions, he crossed paths with more of that sort, but thankfully didn't meet anyone he was expected to stop and greet properly. During his hurried walk, he fortified his mind, and prepared himself for whatever the Dark Lord had in store for him.

Once he reached the door to the Sitting Room, it swung open for him before he could knock, and he let out a deep breath before stepping across the threshold and into the room. In front of him was a plush green sofa and two coffee tables, standing in front of a cold fireplace. Deeper into the rectangular room was a circular table onto which a pile of newspapers lay. Running along the entire right wall, down to the short wall where a heavy tapestry hung, portraying an ancient-looking wizard sitting sleeping in a high-backed chair, were bookcases filled to the rim with heavy, old-looking tomes. Running along the opposite wall, which was adorned with tall windows without curtains, were comfortable-looking, green armchairs. In one of those, sitting reading the day's newspaper with one leg crossed over the other, was the Dark Lord.

"A little tardy, are we?" he observed in a soft voice before turning the page, which let out a satisfying crackling sound once set into motion.

"I apologise, my Lord," Severus said at once, walking across the room and falling to one knee in front of him on the cold stone floor, bowing his head in submission. "I encountered Mr Potter on the way and became ... distracted."

The Dark Lord hummed with indifferent acceptance and kept reading his newspaper for about a minute before folding it and putting it to the side. "Arise," he instructed, and with relief, Severus did so – stoically ignoring the dull pain in his knee. "Why don't you take a seat," the Dark Lord continued and gestures lazily with his left hand, making the armchair to his left shoot away from the wall and come to a stop to Severus' right, facing his own chair.

With a short bow of the head in appreciation, Severus sat down with fluid motions. "Thank you, my Lord."

"It must have been quite the confrontation," the Dark Lord mused in a quiet voice, "to make the renowned perfectionist Potions Master Severus Snape lose track of time."

Severus lowered his gaze respectfully. "Again, my Lord, I do apologise for my tardiness. It was highly unworthy of –"

"Show me."

Remaining perfectly calm, Severus raised his head without hesitation. "Certainly, my Lord."

Unflinchingly, he let the Dark Lord stare deep into his eyes and with a painless rush seep deep into his consciousness. Obediently, he presented the memory as he had shaped it; his arrival at the pier, Potter calling out for him behind his back, his immediate surprise and anger, "Out for a nice evening flight, Potter? How very ... convenient." Potter's windblown face twisting into a deep frown. "What do you mean 'convenient'?" His mind clouded with anger, and stray memories of a nearly identical scowl from twenty years ago flitted in and out of his mind's eye, as he lead the way into the shrubbery. He cast a Privacy Ward and turned to Potter.

Under the Dark Lord's forceful scrutiny, the conversation went down exactly as Potter would remember it, but once he stormed off, Severus' handiwork truly came into play. He stood watching Potter stomp up the road to the fortress with dark fury, trying to calm himself with the help of deep breaths. His mind filled up with memories of James Potter, and how he time upon time proved to Severus how utterly spoiled and pathetic he was, while still getting all the attention and all the popularity. After a long while of reminiscence and parallels drawn between the boy and his father, Severus sighed deeply and looked at his silver pocket watch. Seeing that it was three minutes past seven, he snapped the lid closed and called out, "elf!" Dobby arrived, and Severus' constructed memory knitted itself flawlessly together with his real one, following Dobby's Obliviation.

After following his steps out of the shrubbery and half-way up the road, the Dark Lord released his vice hold with a thoughtful expression. "Yet again, I must confess myself surprised, Severus," he said in a soft tone. "After your heartfelt confession following my return, I had assumed that you would attempt to mend the breach between yourself and the boy."

Severus twisted his face into a dark sneer. "As you well know, my Lord, I am forced to act under the influence of an Unbreakable Vow to try to protect Potter from harm in any way I can. It is excruciating to me, who have spent the last couple of weeks, if not the entire past year, trying to protect him from harm's way, to watch him throw himself into danger without a second thought to the consequences."

"And what 'danger' are you referring to, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked in a whisper, barely moving his mouth.

"Initially," Severus began slowly, treading carefully ahead as if choosing his words with delicate care, "I was infuriated by the fact that he jumped head-first into the death trap particularly designed for whomever sought to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Imagine my fury at finding out that the boy I had sworn to protect had decided on a whim to forsake my work, and the sacrifice of his mother, to take on a full-grown wizard with nothing more than a mere year's experience of magic and a handful of misguided Gryffindor courage."

"And 'eventually'?" the Dark Lord pressed with a hint of humour gleaming in his eyes.

"Following his disappearance, I spent days searching for him," Severus replied coldly. "While I did search with the intention of bringing him to safety, I also spent those days resenting him and imagining different ways of having him pay for his suicidal behaviour. Imagine my surprise at finding him here, safe and sound, living in the lap of luxury with no apparent concerns for the ones he had left behind."

The Dark Lord's mouth curled into a wicked smirk. "So, you decided to give him a piece of your mind, and got a little carried away."

"Unfortunately, my Lord," Severus admitted through tense lips.

"Tell me," said the Dark Lord in a deceitfully carefree tone of voice. "Why it is that you hold such an aversion to his referring to me as 'master'?"

Severus imagined biting into a lemon and felt his features shape accordingly. "Potter has repeatedly failed to address ... choice members of the staff as is appropriate for their station. I have, personally, had to remind him on more than one occasion."

The Dark Lord let out a soft snigger. "And does it infuriate you that I, who so heartlessly murdered his mother and father, succeeded in earning his respect when you, his knight in shining armour, fell short?"

Clenching his jaw tightly, Severus remained silent for a moment, before allowing a sharp nod. "I must confess that it is ... most unsatisfying, my Lord ... However, I also realise that I might be ... clinging onto the past ... I sometimes find it hard to resist ... but I must admit, Potter was ... correct in his form of address."

"Indeed," the Dark Lord said with a half thoughtful, half amused expression. "And have you come to terms with his predicament? Have you realised how little choice he has had in the matter?"

Severus relaxed his jaw and let out a heavy sigh. "Yes, my Lord. I must remember that he is but a child, after all."

The Dark Lord let out another chuckle. "Yes, indeed ... Severus, tell me ... Is there a particular reason for your interest in the contract concerning Harry's apprenticeship?"

Severus was dangerously close to blanching at the very sudden question, and for one moment, a triumphant look flitted across the Dark Lord's features, but then his already prepared answer tore out of his stiff lips on its own accord. "None other than making sure that Potter knew exactly what it entailed ... And I find that I never learned whether he did or not. In fact, I would not be surprised in the least if that incredulous – pardon me – if the boy has not even seen fit to read it."

After studying him thoughtfully, looking to be evaluating the truthfulness of his explanation, the Dark Lord's smirk widened with amusement. "I must say, despite all your resentment towards the boy, you know him quite well."

Carefully hiding his dismay at the revelation, Severus tensely replied. "He acts so very much like his father at times I am all but too aware of his character, my Lord."

The Dark Lord's smile faltered slowly. "It is a weakness of his," he allowed quietly. "And I have taken it upon myself to rid the boy of all weakness. Judging by his expressions during your verbal abuse, Harry has started to question his own actions, and I wouldn't be surprised if this will prove to serve as a good lesson for him ... So I should thank you for the help." The Dark Lord's wicked smile returned. "I couldn't have expressed it quite so efficiently myself – it is _very_ important that Harry likes me, after all. You don't seem to have that ... concern."

Keeping his expression stoic, Severus switched position in his seat so that he had his legs crossed. "If Potter likes me or not is of no consequence," he replied, as if reluctant. "I have vowed to keep him safe, nothing else."

Humming thoughtfully, the Dark Lord made a pause, seemingly mulling his reply over, before righting in his seat. "Well, enough about that," he dictated with a sudden air of getting down to business. "However interesting, it was not why I asked you here today."

"No, my Lord," said Severus, mimicking the Dark Lord's tone of voice. "Where would you like me to start?"

"I would prefer a chronological order," the Dark Lord replied quietly, lightly tapping the right armrest with his hand; one finger at the time. "However, before we delve into your history with the Order of the Phoenix, I need to know more about their current affairs."

Severus gave a curt nod. "Certainly, my Lord," he said and discretely cleared his throat. "Following Potter's disappearance, Dumbledore gathered some choice members of the past to create a searching party. It consisted of five people; Alastor Moody, Remus Lupin, Mundungus Fletcher, Rubeus Hagrid and himself. Five days later, once the students at Hogwarts had returned to their homes, Minerva McGonagall and I were called in to do this work as well. Two days later, there was a meeting at Hogwarts, during which the Order was officially reinstated. At that meeting, seven additional members joined us; Elphias Doge, Sturgis Podmore, Dedalus Diggle, Arthur and Molly Weasley, Emmeline Vance, and Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Indeed?" said the Dark Lord with raised eyebrows. "I have been in contact with Laurence and Eugenia Shacklebolt, his brother and sister in law, I believe, and they never mentioned young Kingsley's ... alliances."

"He is an Auror, my Lord," Severus supplied as a means of explanation.

"So he fights Dark wizards for a living," the Dark Lord mused in understanding. "I suppose there are bad seeds in most pure-blood families these days ... Is he loyal to the Ministry?"

"Not particularly," Severus replied after a short ponder. "He is ... somewhere in between. He is far from as averse to it as Moody, but also not as blindly rooted into it as Rufus Scrimgeour."

"I see," the Dark Lord replied with a thoughtful nod. "And Mr Remus Lupin? A werewolf, and yet on the Light side?"

Severus couldn't help sneering. "He is highly loyal to Dumbledore, my Lord, who allowed his enrolment at Hogwarts despite his ... condition."

The Dark Lord let out a disbelieving laugh. "He did? To what end? A werewolf can hardly hope to make use of an education since nobody would dare employ one. He would have fared far better as an apprentice."

Feeling his sneer curl into a spiteful smirk, Severus couldn't help letting some of his walls fall. "Not to mention that his peers would have been far _safer_ without him there – he wouldn't even use the Wolfsbane Potion once it was invented in our fifth year, but preferred to transform fully and take the risk of infecting someone."

Studying Severus with an amused glint in his eye, the Dark Lord tilted his head slightly to the side. "And does he take it now?"

Severus scoffed darkly. "That fool couldn't ever hope to be talented enough at Potions to brew it ... so Dumbledore is having _me_ supply him with it."

"I see," the Dark Lord replied simply and smiled. "Carry on."

"Since that meeting, the Order has grown in number, but not very significantly," Severus explained once he had taken a deep breath to calm himself. "After Dumbledore's public attempt to convince Minister Fudge of your return, my Lord, his credibility has been questioned by many and this has made it difficult to recruit new allies." Severus faltered at the Dark Lord's amused chuckle, but carried on since he didn't seem to wish to speak. "Despite this, the numbers have increased from 14 to 35 –"

At this, the Dark Lord threw his head back into a bout of full-blown, evil laughter that the devil himself would have been proud of producing. "Dumbledore wish to fight me with an army of _35_?" he exclaimed a grinned triumphantly up at the ceiling. "Oh how the great have fallen. Tell me, Severus, is he frustrated? Is he quivering in his tower at the very thought of me? Or does he, perhaps, have some secret weapon in store?"

"No, my Lord," Severus lied without a flinch. "His plan is far simpler; he means to make an alliance with the Ministry once you have made your return public. He is hoping to come to Minister Fudge's rescue once he realises his own position, and provide his specialised force to work beside the Aurors. He is also preparing for the possibility of Fudge's resignation. There are some influential wizards and witches whom he suspects might run for office, and he is having Doge, Podmore and Shacklebolt make nice with them in preparation."

"As is expected," the Dark Lord said quietly, still looking amused, but not up in stitches any more.

Severus nodded shortly. "Dumbledore has also used his position as Supreme Mugwump to find allies within the International Confederation of Wizards. So far, the Mugwumps of France, Germany and Belgium, who associate with Dumbledore on a personal level, have shown some interest."

"Indeed?" said the Dark Lord and sobered up completely. "That is a development you shall need to keep a close eye on. The magical populations of Germany and Belgium are both below a thousand, but there are enough wizards in France to keep Beauxbatons running. Around two thousand, I believe. It is only half the number of the British and Irish population, but still, they could pose a problem."

Making a curt nod, Severus swore to keep an eye out. "Additionally, there is some undercover work being conducted within the Auror ranks," he explained, watching the Dark Lord's pensive expression carefully. "They have been searching for Quirrell, my Lord, despite their orders to prioritise the prisoners of Azkaban. There are many who still feel strongly about Potter's disappearance, and who could be swayed to put in some extra hours for that cause."

The Dark Lord hummed thoughtfully and started drumming his fingertips against the armrest again. "Have they made progress?"

"They keep getting side-tracked," Severus replied calmly. "Last thing I heard, they were searching the mountains around the North West Highlands. Apparently, there has been a tip from an anonymous source –" Severus trailed off when the Dark Lord's expression grew instantly furious.

"Are they there currently?"

Severus hesitated. "I believe so, my Lord. They usually work overtime whenever there is a lead."

With a hiss, the Dark Lord sprang to his feet and walked up to Severus' side with two quick steps.

"Your arm," he demanded sharply, holding his right hand out while pulling his wand out of his robe pocket with his left. Severus hurriedly pulled up his left sleeve and offered the arm to the Dark Lord, who instantly took it in a firm grip and pressed his wand tip against the mark, which started to burn and turned the deepest shade of black. There was a moment of stillness, during which they both looked away from each other, waiting. Then, the Dark Lord started hissing in what sounded like dark curses in Parseltongue and unceremoniously dropped Severus' arm before calling out "Elf!"

After a few seconds, Dobby appeared with a sharp _pop_ , and instantly, the Dark Lord pierced him with a sharp look. "Where is Quirrell?"

"Oh! D-D-Dobby will go check, master!" the little creature squeaked fearfully and _popped_ away, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

"Pardon me, my Lord," said Severus carefully, "but I was under the impression that Quirrell was hiding here, in this fortress."

"He is," the Dark Lord snapped, starting to pace restlessly back and forth in the slim room. "But not always – there are some instances when he travels north."

 _Pop_! "Mr Quirrell is not here, master! He is being gone!"

Standing stock-still, tense as a bowstring, the Dark Lord looked unseeingly out of the window for a couple of tense seconds, during which Severus carefully stood up from his chair, trying his best to move completely soundlessly. "I am afraid we shall have to postpone this meeting," the Dark Lord said suddenly, still looking away. "I believe you can see yourself out? I will be in touch." And with that, he spun on the spot and Disapparated without the barest sound.

"Mr Snape, sir," said Dobby carefully once his master was gone. "If you are being done, Mr Malfoy is wishing to see you, sir."

Mind nearly overflowing with thoughts, Severus nodded distractedly and silently followed the elf as he lead the way out of the room, through a darkly lit corridor, turning left and then right, before stopping in front of a door on the left side of the long wall. Dobby knocked three times, and a smooth voice soon called out for them to "Enter."

Once the door fell open, Severus recognised the room as the study in which his previous meeting with the Dark Lord had taken place. In the grand chair behind the desk, partly hidden behind some very high stacks of documents, letters and scrolls, sat Lucius, looking worn out.

"Ah, Severus," he said with quite some relief once he looked up from his work, and arose with a dismissive gesture Dobby's way. "Leave, elf."

After making a deep bow, Dobby did just that, and Severus carefully closed the door behind him before walking deeper into the room. "You look dreadful."

"Do I?" Lucius asked with a breathless, humourless laugh. "Well, it can't be helped. You see there was an _incident_ today," he continued in a slightly wheezy whisper.

"An incident?" Severus questioned in an even quieter whisper.

"I just need you to tell me," Lucius continued, meeting eyes with Severus in an unnerving stare. "What have you found? The Dark Lord ... is he lucid? What has _he_ told you?"

By 'he', Severus supposed Lucius meant Dobby, so he shook his head. "He seems completely sane, Lucius. Might I suggest taking this from the beginning? What incident are you referring to?"

Leaning heavily on one hand against his desk, Lucius' expression grew haunted. "He nearly had Narcissa killed."

"Killed?" Severus breathed out in disbelief. "Why?"

"Bellatrix attacked the Potter boy," Lucius managed, taking deep breaths as if fighting a furious battle against either an angry outburst or a tearful breakdown, "and Narcissa assumed all responsibility."

"And the Dark Lord accepted?" Severus asked tensely, receiving a shaky nod from his friend. "But he refrained?"

"The Potter boy stepped in, apparently," Lucius replied in a dull whisper that was barely audible, "and the Dark Lord listened – but what if he hadn't, Severus. I need to know, and soon, or it might be too late."

Letting out a deep breath, Severus allowed himself a moment to ponder on his answer before replying. "I do not believe that he ever intended to punish her, Lucius."

At the reply, Lucius sagged with relief, staring once again right into Severus' eyes, now with hope swirling in his own. "You don't think so?"

"No," Severus said without hesitation. "I believe that the situation required a response ... but the fact that he let himself be swayed by somebody else's opinion is ... quite unheard of, and the most likely explanation is that he used Potter to get out of punishing Narcissa. It seems likely that he should be weary of damaging the alliance he has with you and your family, Lucius. He might be forced to, if there is a more public display, but if not ... I find it unlikely that he should risk turning you against him."

"Yes," Lucius whispered with great relief, nodding to himself. "Yes, that does make sense."

Hoping to cheer his friend up, Severus offered a crooked smirk. "Naturally. It was I who said it."

With a light chuckle, Lucius gave him an answering smirk. "Yes, of course. How foolish of me. Well, Most Sensible One, would you care to accompany this Most Foolish One to the One-Eyed Hag for a drink? I know I could use one."

"I am afraid not ... at least not yet," Severus replied with a sigh, fishing his pocket watch out to have a look at the time, wondering how it could be eight thirty already. "I am expected at Hogwarts."

"I see," Lucius replied with a sigh. "Very well, if it is not too late once you're done, feel free to come over to the manor."

"I will," Severus promised before pocketing his watch, offering a nod in parting, and walking out the door.


	19. Chapter 19

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Nineteen

* * *

Feeling his heart flutter inside his chest like a bird trapped in a cage, Quirinus took deep breaths and tried to ignore the perspiration leaking down from his turban in tendrils. His legs had started to ache where he sat crouched behind a large boulder inside the lips of the deep cave, where prior to the sudden onslaught of Aurors, the troop of trolls had gathered to start their training, but he soon ignored the feeling when the booming voice sounded again.

"Mr Quirinus Quirrell, I repeat; this is your last chance to surrender. None of the trolls will be harmed and you will be escorted to the Ministry of Magic for a fair trial. Just give yourself up, and we will stand down. What say you?"

Several of the younger trolls inside the cave – the ones who understood English – roared in madness at not being referred to directly, and they shouted taunting encouragements for the Aurors to come at them in the rough dialects of their native tongue. Breathing harshly through his nose, Quirinus looked down at his claw-like, cramping hand and tore it away from its frozen position on his left arm, realising with some relief that the Dark Mark had stopped burning quite some time ago.

"Port-key?" Gnaugwalft, the elected troll general, asked him in a rough whisper, sticking his head out of the opening to the deeper parts of the cave, where the entire troop stood squished together, waiting for orders.

Carefully extracting his wand from its position in his belt, the clamminess of his hands nearly making him drop it, Quirinus looked at Gnaugwalft and shook his head. "It will n-not work. I couldn't u-use my mark, s-s-so they m-must have p-p-put up wards around us. We must choose t-to either f-f-fight our way out ... o-or surrender."

The large troll stared down at him with determination, and his face looked like it might have been carved out of the stone behind him. With his big black eyes fixed on Quirinus wand, he made a sharp nod. "Fight?"

Suppressing the urge to break down into a nervous bout of laughter, feeling a heavy weight leave his shoulders as he cemented what had come to be his final decision, Quirinus gave a nod in return. "Yes. We must p-push through ... until we're outside the w-w-wards. Th-then, you can use the Port-key."

While the troll general turned around to inform the troop, Quirinus chanced a peek around the side of the boulder, catching sight of approximately twenty Aurors standing waiting for him a little way outside the cave opening. Feeling slightly sick, he retracted his head and let out a couple of furious huffs of breath, trying his best to fight through the faintness.

By the looks of it, his thirty-seven trolls outnumbered the Aurors – but there might be more waiting outside, he told himself. He leaned heavily against the boulder, trying to collect himself, thinking over and over again that this was his choice, and that there was no going back now. It was done.

Slowly, Quirinus stood up on his shaky legs, and stood waiting for what felt like an eternity. Then, very suddenly, Gnaugwalft poked his head out of the opening. Feeling that he was incapable of nodding his head, Quirinus mouthed his command instead. "Go!"

With a terrifying roar, echoing between the cave walls, Gnaughwalft charged out of the opening, shortly followed by the entire bulk of trolls, and through the ruckus, the sound loud _bangs_ and _crunches_ could be heard. Somebody shouted "Fall back!", a couple of young troll voices roared triumphantly, and then, Quirinus, who had taken the time to Disillusion himself, slipped out of cover.

Near the opening of the cave, where the soft light of the setting sun streamed through in deceiving serenity, lay the broken bodies of three Aurors who had not been fast enough, and had been crushed beneath the trolls' feet as a result. Ignoring the sickening churn in his stomach, Quirinus rushed past and out into the open, immediately getting an earful of the heavy _bangs_ and _smatterings_ of rock hitting rock.

Pausing to find a safe way to escape, Quirinus squinted through the heavy layer of dust and saw that most Aurors had positioned themselves on the edge of a cliff, reaching high above them to the left of the flat clearing immediately outside of the cave mouth. As he stood watching, the last couple of Aurors were making giant leaps up onto the cliff edge, landing smoothly even though it had had to be a 30 feet jump.

Half the troll troop was thundering ahead, while the other half stood tossing heavy boulders up at the Aurors. A few of the group of approximately twenty Aurors redirected the boulders before they could reach their targets, making them slam into the sides of the mountain wall instead, but most of the Aurors were throwing Severing Charms at the trolls' necks; one at the time. As Quirinus stood watching, one of the larger youngsters he had come to know as Mowotoff, son of the Hobovodul Chieftain, had his throat entirely cut open and fell to the ground with a horrible roar of pain, making the ground rumble and quiver from the weight of his heavy bulk.

Feeling a sting of sorrow, Quirinus looked around, desperate to find a way out. He looked to the other side of the small canyon, and noticed that five Aurors were left on ground, sneaking along the cliff edges, quite obviously looking for him.

The Auror closest to the cave mouth, a pale and thin woman with a pronounced scar running across her sharp-featured face, made a sharp turn and looked straight at him, obviously having sensed his presence. Trying to buy himself some time, Quirinus hurriedly Disillusioned a boulder to his right and then Transfigured it into a copy of himself, before holding it up in front of him, just as the Auror's Counter-Spell came zooming towards him. It hit the Transfigured body, which turned visible, and at once, Quirinus threw himself to the side and sprinted across the side of the battlefield towards the slope where Gnaughwalft had lead half the trolls. Coming from behind him, he could see the different coloured lights of spells, and he managed to sprint in a straight line, nearly all the way past the rock-throwing trolls, before a sudden spell hit him square in the chest, turning him instantly visible.

Looking up, he met eyes with a very severe looking Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had his wand aimed straight at him, blasting out a red-beamed curse, which Quirinus quickly raised a Shield Charm against before it could make impact. It hit his shield and evaporated, just as the next couple of red, purple and yellow spells came zooming in quick succession from Kingsley's direction. Then, the onslaught of spells stopped, and looking up, Quirinus saw that Kingsley had had to protect himself from a stray boulder, which he had made explode mid-air, creating a deafening explosion, sending heavy debris and smoke all over the cliff edge.

Instantly jumping into action, Quirinus dashed the last distance, coming up to the opening in the canyon, leading out to the slope where half the troll troop had gathered, apparently having found their way outside of the wards. With some relief, Quirinus made to sprint over to them, but came to a violently stop when a red-beamed spell came zooming past his shoulder. Stumbling to the side and whipping around, Quirinus barely had the time to throw up a Shield Charm before three red and two yellow spells hit it at once. He flew backwards, hitting the rocky ground painfully, and the next moment, he was frozen completely in place by a powerful Full Body-Bind Curse.

Having a perfect view of the battlefield, Quirinus saw that the group of twenty trolls had been cut down to ten. On the cold hard ground lay the dead trolls splayed out; some of them with deep gashes in their throats, others completely decapitated. Half of the remaining trolls were still throwing rocks, but the others had started to flee, running or crawling towards safety, depending on the severity of their injuries. The ear-splitting ruckus had been cut down to the occasional _bang_ and _splatter_ of rock, as well as desperate howls and roars of pain and fear coming from the escaping trolls. It was all too clear to Quirinus that they were losing; that he would be captured and carted off to the Ministry any moment now.

Suddenly, there was a presence to his side, but he couldn't turn his head to see who it was. The Auror pulled him up by the arms, holding him in a vice grip before aiming the tip of the wand to the underside of his throat. "Walk!" hissed out a deep voice, and the next moment, Quirinus realised that his legs had been released from the curse. He stumbled forwards, scaling the side of the battle field, watching with terror as troll after troll fell lifeless to the ground. Then, being pushed harshly forwards, he stumbled ahead out of the canyon opening and suddenly locked eyes with Gnaughwalft. Desperately, Quirinus wished that he could scream for him to take who remained and flee, but he couldn't move his mouth or any part of his face. The troll general seemed to catch on, however, and uttered a guttural shout as he undid his belt buckle and tore the strap free from his loincloth. The trolls around him scrambled to grab the belt, and they appeared to be about to leave when a great rumble and a cascade of terrified screams sounded from above them.

The man holding him spun them around, holding his wand up in front of them with a strong, weathered hand. From his new position, Quirinus watched with disbelief as something incredible happened. The entire side of the cliff above them had broken loose, and was now hovering mid-air, high above ground. The Aurors on top of it were scrambling to get off; jumping one by one off the edge and down onto the ground 30 feet below. Keeping close together in a tight group until all Aurors were down on safe ground, they held their wands high, looking this way and that as if trying to spy an invisible assaulter. Then, with an incredible speed, the heavy mountainside rushed downwards, as if pushed by a terrible force, efficiently crushing all Aurors gathered below.

To the violent rumble that followed, the Auror who held him sprang alive and started dragging him along to the side, gasping and crying out in disbelief and fear. But Quirinus had another mind. He dug his heels into the ground and refused to cooperate, and the suddenness of his lack of movement made the both of them lose balance and fall to the ground. With a furious growl, the man scrambled off the ground and started running for safety, leaving Quirinus behind, but he didn't make it far before a red beam hit him straight in the back. At once, he went unconscious and tumbled cruelly to the ground, where the sharp rocks cut his uncovered face open in several places.

In the wake of the Auror's collapse, Quirinus felt all feeling return to his body, and once he had struggled back onto his feet, he realised that the entire battlefield had turned eerily quiet. Turning to look at the desolated landscape, he saw no signs of life. The ground was littered with bodies; most notably, those of trolls, but here and there, buried under the heavy rock in the middle of the canyon, the black, brown and red-clad shapes of dead Aurors could be spotted as well. The little group of surviving trolls was gone, and there were no signs of any lingering Aurors.

Feeling drained, Quirinus collapsed against a nearby pine tree and emptied his stomach. He had been close, so close, to getting captured; he was left with a strong sense of disorientation and disbelief, wondering what exactly he had witnessed. _A large chunk of the mountain tearing loose and hovering above ground before flying wildly in a very specific direction._ In all his life, he had only known two people powerful enough to do something like that; Albus Dumbledore, and –

"Do collect yourself. We need to leave."

Quirinus looked up from his bent-over position and met eyes with the Dark Lord, who stood right on the edge of the battlefield, looking eerily calm and collected. Behind him, the stunned Auror hovered, lying on his back mid-air, being held up by a steady Locomotion Charm.

After drawing in a shivering breath, Quirinus nodded and averted his eyes. "Y-y-yes, my Lord." When he looked up again, the Dark Lord and his prey had soundlessly disappeared, and after wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robes, Quirinus Apparated as well.

It was a rough journey, and his focus was low enough for him to worry about splinching himself, but he arrived in one piece, landing heavily on the rocky surface of the pier with a dull _crack_ which echoed slightly across the waters. In front of him stood the Dark Lord, clutching the jaw of the kneeling Auror with a pale, claw-like hand while staring deeply into his eyes. The three of them stood unmoving like that for a couple of minutes, the only sound that of the Auror's pitiful whimpers. Then, it appeared that the Dark Lord was done, as he pitilessly killed the Auror with a flippant Killing Curse, letting him fall heavily to the ground before turning around to face his waiting servant.

"There is a traitor," he stated in a cold voice which broke the silence like the crack of thunder. Quirinus watched silently as the Dark Lord slowly prowled closer to him, until they almost stood toe-to-toe. "This traitor has been in contact with Kingsley Shacklebolt, but no-one else. Nothing more than the location of the troll camp and the fact that you tend to be there at certain times appears to have been relayed." With an ice-cold fury burning in his eyes, the Dark Lord leaned in even further, and Quirinus couldn't help giving a shiver of discomfort. "Do you have _any idea_ who this traitor might be?"

"L-l-let me th-think," Quirinus hastened to reply while doing his best to ignore the Dark Lord's uncomfortable closeness. "I haven't b-been in c-c-contact w-w-with very many l-l-lately, my Lord," he said after a moment's contemplation, "and the t-time I spend h-h-here I ... I keep to m-my room, so ... P-p-perhaps, s-s-someone has been listening in o-o-on our meetings."

"Do you not think I would have noticed?" the Dark Lord replied in a dangerous whisper that had Quirinus' heart freeze up in fear.

Quickly, he shook his head. "I-I-I b-b-beg y-y-your forgiveness my L-L-Lord! O-of course y-y-you would have n-n-noticed!"

"Save it!" the Dark Lord replied in an acidic hiss. "Can you think of no-one who knew of your whereabouts?"

"N-n-no!" Quirinus gasped, shaking his head ever more fervently. "No-one! E-E-Except for you ... a-a-and Mr Potter, my Lord."

"Harry ... knew?" the Dark Lord whispered and leaned in so far the tips of their noses were moments from touching.

"N-N-Not very m-m-much!" Quirinus replied and caved in to his instinct to flinch backwards. He managed one step before the Dark Lord's hand struck out like an incensed cobra and grabbed him by the neck.

"What. Does. He. Know?"

For a painful moment, Quirinus was incapable of producing anything more than a few terrified nonsensical sounds, but when the Dark Lord's hand clenched more harshly against his windpipe, he managed a wheeze. "H-h-only th-h-hat I meet wh-h-h-ith th-h-h-em, n-h-h-h-othing else ... I sw-h-h-h-ear, my Lord."

"Not the location?" the Dark Lord pressed with an odd sort of vulnerable tint to his furious expression.

"No!" Quirinus wheezed and was finally released. He stumbled backwards, clutching at his throat while convulsively opening and closing his mouth; gasping for air.

"Then it is not him," the Dark Lord said in a dismissive tone of voice. "Do try to think the matter through more thoroughly for the next couple of days, and come directly to me if you should recall something of interest."

Giving a thick cough before straightening, Quirinus replied, feeling quite some relief at not being punished further. "Of course, my Lord," he managed in a ragged tone, watching as the Dark Lord gave a short nod of approval.

"All things considered, you did well today, Quirrell."

Quirinus couldn't help blinking, thinking at first that he had misheard. "I ... I d-d-did?"

"But of course," replied the Dark Lord quietly. "A lesser man might have caved in and handed himself over to the Aurors ... You did not choose this life after all ... But I am happy to see that you have done so at last."

At once, Quirinus was struck by a terrifying realisation. "You knew," he whispered. "All along, y-y-you ... you knew."

"That you were in doubt?" the Dark Lord replied with a small, amused twitch of his lips. "Naturally. I inhabited your mind for a year, remember? Of course I knew ... But I also know that you have come to a final decision. I do not need Legilimency to see that."

Feeling faint, Quirinus pressed his lips together into a thin line and gave a curt nod. "I have c-come to realise that ... w-w-whatever life I had b-before is l-l-long past, and i-it won't come back ... I-I-I travelled th-th-the world for a reason; t-to get something _m-more_ out of life ... I-I want to _live_ , my Lord."

"And so you shall," replied the Dark Lord dismissively and poked the collapsed Auror delicately with his booted foot. "This needs to be taken care of ... And then, there is the trolls ... Do try to secure our alliance. They will refuse to fight for us – they have lost too much – but they might still agree with our cause."

With one last glance his way, the Dark Lord Disapparated; leaving Quirinus behind to clean up the mess.

* * *

With a tight frown, Harry studied his hair in the mirror, taking in the slightly better order he had managed to create with the Smoothing Charm Voldemort had taught him, as promised. He hadn't been able to get it to look as good as when Voldemort had done it, but it was certainly an improvement, he decided and pocketed his wand.

As he descended the staircases, he couldn't help going over the meeting he had had with Snape the night before. His mind had been occupied with it all through the night, and he'd dreamed of a warped version of it, in which Snape chased and lunged at him, roaring insults about his mother and father, just like Uncle Vernon used to whenever he lost his temper. In the end, Snape had caught him by the neck and held him up in the air, hissing about how pathetic and disgusting he was, before smashing his head against a tree trunk. That was when he had woken up, shivering in cold sweat.

He knew, of course, that it had all been outrageous – both the dream and the real meeting with Snape. But he couldn't shake the thought that, at least in some ways, Snape had a point. Harry _had_ stupidly signed that contract without looking at it first ... It was just that it had seemed so hopeless at the time, but now, knowing Voldemort a bit better, he understood that he might have been able to adjust the content more to his liking if he'd read it before signing it ... And furthermore; knowing what he'd agreed to would be immensely helpful – in fact, not knowing could even turn out to be dangerous.

It had indeed been stupid of him, but it was not the only thing that had his mind reeling. There was a particular thing Snape had said that kept playing on repeat in his mind, driving him slowly insane with self-doubt.

" _You call him 'master'. Do you know who else have called him that in the past? Mindless servants who have given themselves over completely for him to do whatever he wish with."_

Harry couldn't deny it – he'd seen how that _Bellatrix_ had acted around Voldemort. She had been grovelling on the floor, kissing his robes and looking at him with adoration. She had hung onto his every word, and listened to him as though he had been a god. _She had called him 'master', just like I do_ , Harry thought to himself and clenched his teeth against the sudden onslaught of disgust. _Is that what I'll become? Is that what he's expecting of me?_

Still distracted by his thoughts, Harry entered the Dining Hall, walking blindly up to his usual seat and sitting down.

"Good morning, Harry," said a soft voice to his left, and blinking out of his occupied thoughts, Harry turned to face Voldemort with a pensive expression.

"Good morning, master." He looked past Voldemort's shoulder and met eyes with Malfoy's father, sitting to his left. "Mr Malfoy," he continued with a small nod, which the Ambassador returned with the tiniest smirk.

"Mr Potter," he said in a smooth voice before taking a long sip of his tea, holding the saucer up close to his face in a way that made the movement look carelessly elegant.

Voldemort turned the page in his newspaper and lifted his left hand, making a short gesture in the direction of the teapot. As it soared closer, Harry held his cup up, watching as the warm liquid slowly filled it to the rim. "Thank you," Harry said quietly to Voldemort when the pot hovered back to its original spot, sitting itself down with the tiniest _thud_.

As Harry helped himself to some toast and eggs, Voldemort finished with the paper and neatly folded it, before putting it down next to his plate. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spied the booming headline, reading: 'FOURTEEN AURORS DEAD IN TROLL ATTACK; A LARGE GROUP OF TROLLS SUSPECTED OF HARBOURING AZKABAN ESCAPEES'.

"Have there been any complications with the rescheduling of today's meetings?" Voldemort asked quietly to Mr Malfoy, who delicately wiped his mouth with a thick, white napkin before replying.

"No, my Lord. All meetings have been successfully pushed forward," Mr Malfoy replied with a pleasant smile. "And the preparations for tonight are running along smoothly as well."

"Excellent," Voldemort replied quietly. "Keep me informed of Mr Cuffe's decision. I have something very special planned for the occasion of his refusal."

"Certainly, my Lord," Mr Malfoy replied smoothly and arose from his seat, elegantly curtseying before striding out of the room; making a small detour to the end of the leftmost table to press a chaste kiss to his pale wife's cheek.

As Harry and Voldemort sat eating in silence, several people came up to them to bid them a good morning, either before sitting down to eat at either of the two long tables, or before leaving the Dining Hall to start their days. Two of these people were Mrs Malfoy and the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange, who glared acidly at Harry all through her stiff curtsey. Amusedly encouraged by James, Harry gave her an overly polite smile and said "Good morning!" in as cheerful at tone he could manage. When the two women left, he sniggered to himself at the look of affrontedness on Bellatrix's face.

Hearing his amusement, Voldemort glanced down at him with a small smirk, but didn't comment. Instead, he took a last swig of tea and wiped his mouth on a napkin, which he then folded and placed neatly in the middle of his clean plate. "I shall require your assistance with a small matter," he said and arose from his seat. "Come to the tower once you have finished."

"What do you need help with?" Harry asked, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful of toast.

Pausing, Voldemort looked down at him with a crooked smile. "Rations," he simply said, before striding out of the room in a quick and graceful gait that Harry thought made him look a bit pompous.

Once the Dark Lord had left the room, Harry snatched the folded newspaper from its place to have a look. The first thing he saw, beneath the booming headline he'd already spied, was a picture of a very regal-looking, bald wizard wearing a thick black cloak over a lighter set of robes. He was staring right out of the frame, and barely moved, holding his arms stonily crossed over his broad chest. ' _Kingsley Shacklebolt, Auror in Command_ ' read a small script beneath the picture, and Harry instantly recognised the surname from having met a Mr and Mrs Shacklebolt at Voldemort's dinner party nearly one week ago. He didn't recognise the man in the picture, though, so he assumed it had to be a relative of theirs.

Hurriedly reading through the article, Harry learned that there had been an attack on the Aurors who were out searching for the Azkaban Escapees last night, and that as a result, fourteen witches and wizards had died. Apparently, they had happened upon a collective of trolls, who had refused to give up the criminals they were harbouring. The Aurors had been attacked before negotiations could be made, and even though overcoming the troll troop, the criminals' spell work had apparently been too much for the Aurors, who had either died or fled. Now, Auror Shacklebolt was to be suspended temporarily for his recklessness, and the Auror Office would be put under investigation to see if they were to be held responsible for the Aurors who died in the attack.

Harry frowned as a thought started nagging at him from the back of his mind. _All the Azkaban Escapees were here last night, at Ravenclaw Island – not with the trolls._ The only one who, to Harry's knowledge, had had any business with the trolls was Quirrell, but the article didn't mention him at all. Harry's frown deepened. _Why would the Daily Prophet say that the Aurors were looking for the prisoners if they were actually looking for Quirrell? Had they been misinformed? Or were they trying to cover something up?_

Pondering on this mystery, feeling a bit relieved to have something other than his own position to occupy his mind for a little bit, Harry finished his breakfast and left the Dining Hall behind, slowly ascending the staircases as he thought about what he should ask Voldemort, and what he should keep to himself.

Upon entering the West Tower Office, he found Voldemort standing by the square table in the middle, leaning heavily against the flat surface with both hands, staring intently at the strategy map laid out upon it. Thinking that he seemed to be thinking hard on something, Harry decided not to interrupt and instead walked quietly closer, just watching.

After a silent moment, Voldemort reached out with one hand and picked up a small figurine standing in the northern part of Scotland. Looking closer, Harry saw that it portrayed a roaring mountain troll, holding its fat club up in one hand, looking to be charging forwards. After a moment's scrutiny, Voldemort took out his wand and tapped it on the top of the figurine's head. At once, the troll shrunk back, moulded its roar into a look of deep concentration, and sat down on its knees with the club resting by its side. Slowly, Voldemort put it back onto the map; a little further to the east than before, and took a step back.

"We have lost a powerful ally," Voldemort said quietly before looking up to meet Harry's eyes.

"What happened?" Harry asked, mimicking the Dark Lord's soft tone.

Despite the fact that his face and body remained relaxed, Harry noticed that Voldemort's eyes flashed with a deep fury, and it made him realise that his master was utterly livid about the loss. "There is a traitor," he simply said, in a deceivingly calm tone before rounding the table and walking over to the glass tanks holding the small basilisks. "Someone who told the Auror in Command about Quirrell's mission," he said as he made a summoning motion with his left hand, and as such levitated one of the tanks away from the others and over to his desk. "And who led them there last night, when Quirrell was busy installing the troll troop into the new lodgings and training grounds he has spent this past week preparing ... There was a battle, and 22 out of the 37 trolls died. Quirrell has been negotiating with the clans' chieftains, but all of them refuse to send more of their kin into battle. We still have their political support, but not much else."

Harry felt his stomach churn with discomfort. " _The_ _Daily Prophet_ said that the trolls attacked the Aurors, and that they were there to look for the prisoners from Azkaban."

Standing behind his desk, carefully lifting the lid away from the glass tank and then picking up one of the small snakes with sure motions, Voldemort scoffed darkly. " _The Daily Prophet_ writes whatever the Ministry tells it to write. For now ... It is in their best interest to prioritise the Azkaban escapees, or well, they _believe_ it is in their best interest – Lucius' handiwork, actually. So, that is what they will have the public believe. It also doesn't hurt them as much having their Aurors die in a big-scale mission, as it would if it came out that it actually was a small-scale off the record mission.

"As for who attacked first, it appears to have been the trolls, in fact. However, they were surrounded, with no other choice but to surrender or fight their way out. Since they refused to do this, a battle was unavoidable."

"What would have happened if they surrendered?" Harry asked, coming up to stand next to Voldemort, picking up a snake of his own, that hissed warmly at him and coiled softly around his hands.

"Quirrell would have been captured," Voldemort said, watching as the little, almost entirely green snake coiled up his right arm on a quest towards his shoulders. "The trolls would have survived, but they would have been antagonised and many of them might have been exiled from Magical Britain on grounds of treason. Because of the fight, they stopped being a threat, and will thus suffer fewer repercussions in the long run. The Ministry depends on them for Potions ingredients, mining and a fair amount of cheap labour after all, and as long as they are not a threat, they will remain safe."

"So they had no other choice?" Harry exclaimed, feeling outraged. "They had to fight, and the Aurors killed them?"

"They had a choice," Voldemort contradicted calmly. "There is always a choice; even inaction is a choice in itself. Like most, they chose the solution which benefited them the most ... and now we all will have to live with the consequences."

"It just ... it seems so messed up that the Aurors did this ... and then, they went and told people that _they_ were the ones who were attacked, as if the trolls are wild animals or something. It's so ..." Harry tried to find a good word for it.

"Evil?" Voldemort supplied with a small smirk, and Harry found himself nodding.

"Yes! It's evil to do something like that. Isn't it?"

Voldemort scoffed darkly and carefully peeled away the little basilisk, which was busy coiling around his pale neck. "What do I keep telling you, Harry? There is no good and evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Harry asked, frowning down at his own snake.

"It means," said Voldemort in a very patient tone of voice, "that good and evil is a matter of perspective, and thus entirely subjective. There is no distinct rule what is good or what is evil, but people constantly have to decide for themselves what they think, which makes it entirely unreliable and _dangerous_. Creating villains makes people narrow-minded, hateful and less understanding. Once there is a clear enemy, you have to fight him at all cost. But you see, almost every single person in the world considers himself a hero. Extremely few people consider themselves evil, and acts accordingly. Most people think that they themselves are _good_. That is, in itself, dangerous thinking as well, and it blinds people to other people's suffering. That is why one must look upon the world as a place for power alone; and not good and evil."

"So you don't think that what the Aurors did was evil?" Harry asked, trying his best to follow Voldemort's line of thought.

"No; it was merely what they thought was the best option at their disposal. It was deceptive, since they outright lied to the press, but they thought that it was necessary," said Voldemort and carefully placed the snake back into the tank.

Thinking the reply over, frowning deeply as he did his best to figure out exactly what it all meant, Harry put his own snake down as well. Silently, he watched as Voldemort took out his wand and started waving it in a complicated pattern with a focused expression on his face. Suddenly, a little mouse appeared on the desktop, looking up at them with startled black eyes, twitching its nose nervously. Before it could scurry away, Voldemort levitated it off the table with a small motion of his left index finger, which he then pointed at the glass tank, making the mouse hover to the open top of it, squealing and struggling helplessly in the air.

Feeling a sting of pity for the small creature, Harry looked away. "Does it have to be alive?" he whispered, thinking that it surely must suffer less from a swift death than being subjected to being eaten alive.

"It's not alive," Voldemort replied with a small sigh, lowering the mouse into the tank, where the snakes stood at attention, hissing excitedly.

The biggest of them, a proud female with very clear black markings on her back, had the struggling mouse coming up to her, and she flicked her long tongue out before starting to glare very intently at her prey with her glowing yellow eyes. With one last squeak, the mouse seized up and went completely stiff, before slowly changing in colour. The change started at the nose and moved all the way down to the tip of the tail, until the entire mouse had been turned into stone. Then, the snake lashed out and caught its head between her strong jaws, before curling up in strong coils around her pray.

"It is Conjured," Voldemort continued, watching the snake eat with excited fascination dancing in his red eyes. "Remember what I told you about Conjurations? There is no wizard alive, nor has one ever lived, strong enough to create life. The mouse is animated to assimilate life – the snakes like it better that way, and we wouldn't want them to lose interest in food."

"Oh," said Harry, looking at the feeding snake and its pray with new eyes, allowing himself to find it fascinating as well. "So it's sort of like a Chocolate Frog?"

There was a short pause, during which Voldemort sent him a bemused look, but then he turned back to the snakes with a small smile on his lips. "Yes exactly. And like wizarding portraits, moving pictures, tapestries and so forth. Chess pieces too; I believe you said that you had played Wizard's Chess before?"

"Yeah," said Harry and watched as Voldemort Conjured another mouse and proceeded to feed it to the next snake in line.

As they kept at it, moving from one glass tank to the other, Harry grew gradually more and more relaxed. He still mulled over the dark musings about himself, thinking hard on what Voldemort had told him about good and evil, and soon found himself opening his mouth to break the silence with a very daring question. "Master, will you force me to do terrible things?"

Not changing his calm expression in the least, as if he'd been expecting the question, the Dark Lord continued to feed the last snake of the fourth tank with smooth motions before looking over at him. "No, Harry, I will never force you to do anything. Like I said, there is always a choice, and you will have to make those choices yourself ... I will, of course teach you all you need to know in order to protect yourself and become a powerful wizard ... But how you go about matters, and what choices you make, will and must be up to you."

"So," Harry began, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat, "you won't expect me to ... do exactly as you say all the time?"

"That is not what I said," Voldemort replied calmly as he placed the lid back onto the tank. "You are _my_ apprentice, so naturally I will expect you to do as I say. However, beyond what I have asked of you, you are free to make your own decisions ... And if what I have asked of you goes against what you believe yourself capable of, emotionally or physically, you are of course entitled to raise those concerns with me."

"Do you mean that I can ... refuse to do something I don't want to do?" Harry asked, starting to feel relieved. _He wasn't going to become, like Snape called it, a 'mindless servant'._

"Of course you can refuse," Voldemort replied and levitated the glass tank back to its original spot before fetching the fifth one. "But you will have to accept the consequences of you doing so. You can, for instance, refuse to address me with respect, and thus suffer from the established punishment. It is entirely up to you. However, what I meant was that I will allow you to question my decisions and argue your case without punishment. If you have concerns, I want to be made aware of them so that I do not ask you to do something that you will consequently fail at because of some foreseeable reason."

"So you want me to tell you if I don't want to do what you tell me?" Harry asked, blinking up at the Dark Lord, who smiled down at the contents of the fifth tank, before picking up the albino basilisk with loving care.

"Yes," Voldemort replied simply and slowly turned to look at him. "And I want to know if something bothers you ... I believe that there is something keeping you occupied at this very moment, isn't there?"

Hesitantly, Harry nodded. "Yeah, it's just ... I was thinking about that contract ... You know, the one I had to sign with my blood."

"It's in the topmost drawer, if you want to have a look," Voldemort replied with a small smile before turning back to his little feeding ceremony.

Carefully, barely believing how very simple it had been, Harry pulled out the drawer in front of him and immediately found a neatly rolled up scroll with a red ribbon tied around it. He picked it up and gently pushed the drawer closed, before glancing up at Voldemort to see if he appeared to have changed his mind. Finding the Dark Lord's expression exactly as calm and collected as before, Harry slunk back to the blue sofa group and sat down to read the very dense text of his Apprenticeship Agreement for the first time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty

* * *

 _ **APPRENTICESHIP AGREEMENT**_

 _THIS AGREEMENT was made on the 11_ _th_ _day of July, 1992, between the Dark Lord Voldemort, christened Tom Marvolo Riddle (hereafter referred to as 'the Master') and Harry James Potter (hereafter referred to as 'the Apprentice'), a minor of eleven years of age upon signing. This indenture witnesseth that the Apprentice has put himself, of his own free will, under the care of the Master, with him to live, and (after the manner of a Wizarding Apprenticeship) to serve from the date of signing until the day of his seventeenth birthday (the 31_ _st_ _day of July, 1997)._

 _During which time this Apprenticeship is in effect, the Apprentice the Master faithfully shall serve, his secrets keep, and his commands obey to the best of his ability. He shall do no damage to the Master, directly or indirectly, nor shall he wrongfully make use of or harm the Master's goods, materials and personal belongings. He shall always strive to do right by the Master, and upon doing wrong, shall accept whichever punishment has been verbally agreed upon (or, if no such agreement is in existence, whichever punishment the Master deems appropriate). Without license from the Master, the Apprentice shall not absent himself day or night from the Master's service, nor in any way encourage others to help him in such an endeavour, except upon an occurrence when he should find himself forced to do so in order to avoid mortal danger. However, once his own safety is secured, he shall return to the Master's side with no unnecessary delay. Furthermore, the Apprentice shall never see to harm himself, and in immediate danger of coming to mortal harm, shall protect himself and request the Master's (or any of his loyal servants') aid._

 _Witnesseth that with the consent of the Apprentice's former Guardian, Petunia Dursley, the Master shall, during which time this Apprenticeship is in effect, assume Guardianship of the Apprentice. Hence, the Master the Apprentice shall provide with sufficient housing, food, clothing and other life essentials, as is the duty of a Guardian. Additionally, the Master, during the said term, shall efficiently and carefully teach or cause the Apprentice to be taught the Art and Mystery of a Wizard. The Master shall educate the Apprentice in all areas of his own magical mastery, and shall strive to educate the Apprentice until the point when he reaches that same level of magical mastery. During the said term, the Master will take no other apprentice. He shall, on the occurrence of finding the Apprentice in mortal danger, protect or cause the Apprentice to be protected from direct harm._

 _During his term of service, the Apprentice is entitled to; a minimum of three meals a day, a private room where he is allowed to store his personal belongings, a wand which shall never be removed from his person, the possibility to keep up his personal hygiene and dress in clean clothes, and lessons to a minimum of thirty hours a month, during which either the Master or a teacher appointed by the Master must be present. During said term, the Master is entitled to the Apprentice's full cooperation, respect and loyalty to this Agreement. Upon breaking any of said terms the guilty party shall repent as is seen fit by the Master._

 _SIGNED by the Master and the Apprentice as follows:_

 _LORD VOLDEMORT_

 _HARRY POTTER_

* * *

It took him a good ten tries to wrap his mind around the very complex sentences, never mind the Dark Lord's handsomely squiggly hand. The script was neat but, as all handwriting, very unlike printed text – but once he got the hang of it, Harry ploughed through the contract with growing bemusement, feeling both relieved and confused upon realising how fair it all seemed to him. Once reaching the third paragraph, however, his bemusement was exchanged for horror, and he ripped his eyes away from the text to stare up at Voldemort, who was sitting behind his desk, reading a very old-looking book, sporting a very relaxed countenance.

"You've met Aunt Petunia!?" Harry exclaimed, making the Dark Lord glance up from his reading and raise his eyebrows. "When?"

Not seemingly paying his distressed tone of voice any heed, Voldemort turned back to his book, apparently finding the topic unworthy of his full attention as he deigned to read and reply simultaneously. "One day after we arrived here."

"B-but how?" Harry continued, grasping for the right words. "Why would you do that?"

Voldemort slowly turned a new page in his book. "As it says; to assume Guardianship of you."

"Yes but why?" Harry stressed, starting to feel sick. "Why would you ..."

"To avoid complications," Voldemort replied quietly.

"What complications?" Harry asked at once, feeling his mouth run dry.

"Blood Wards," Voldemort said offhandedly and leaned back a little further in his chair.

As his heart sped up in his chest, and a light ringing started to sound in his ears, Harry felt himself growing angry. "What Blood Wards?" he bit out, feeling a vague sense of triumph when Voldemort hissed a profanity, snapped his book closed and looked back at him with an incensed glare.

"I learned, one year ago," Voldemort said in a distinctly less calm and more annoyed tone of voice than before, "when I found myself incapable of knowing your whereabouts and thus reaching you, that you were protected by two very powerful Blood Wards."

"I was?" Harry said, frowning deeply.

"Yes," Voldemort replied sharply, putting his book down onto the desk with a sharp _thud_. "Now kindly refrain from interrupting me with useless repetitions and instead listen with patience."

Holding back a sarcastic retort about how he wouldn't be forced to if Voldemort would just get to the point, Harry looked to the side and took a calming breath. "I'm sorry, master."

"Do not apologise if it is not absolutely necessary," Voldemort chided in a cold, but calmer voice. "Will you listen, or not?"

Looking up with a dark glare, Harry gave a fake smile. "Yes, master."

The Dark Lord studied him for a moment, appearing completely unimpressed by his flippant answer; that was, if one was not paying attention to his eyes, which gleamed with dark amusement. "Good," he replied shortly and knitted his hands together in his lap. "There were two Blood Wards, both of which I have taken care of to avoid complications. The first came from a ritual, in which your mother was a willing sacrifice, and it stopped me from inflicting physical or magical harm on you; even from touching you outright, it appeared. The other, put in place by Dumbledore himself, prevented me, or anybody bearing the Dark Mark, from finding you as long as you were in the care of a guardian who shared your blood; 'the care' referring to the times when the guardian felt responsible for you, or in other words, when a home was provided for you. When you left that home to go to Hogwarts, your aunt stopped thinking in terms of having you in her care, which allowed me to find you from that point on ... So, to prevent me from losing track of you upon the occurrence of your returning to your aunt's care, I decided to assume the role as your blood relative and Guardian in her place."

Once Voldemort had fallen silent, Harry thought it safe to pose a very burning question. "But you're not my blood relative," he contradicted uncertainly.

"As a matter of fact, we are, odd as it might seem," Voldemort said with a small quirk of his lips. "I trust you recall my reincarnation ceremony? In which your blood was forcefully taken ... That, Quirrell's flesh and the bones of my father created this new body. The flesh and bone disintegrated into the potion, but not the blood. See, blood has very strong magical properties, and as it was a ritual using Blood Magic, it was made so that the new body would contain the blood of the enemy. This can be considered both a weakness and a strength of the ritual, depending on how it is used, but in our case, it proved a strength. It disintegrated the first Blood Ward, allowing me to touch you without harming either of us, and it made me your blood relative, allowing me to manipulate the terms of the second Blood Ward after a quick visit to your aunt."

"You ... you have my blood?" Harry whispered, feeling as though the more he learned, the less he knew.

"We share blood," Voldemort confirmed stiffly, "quite literally."

"Oh," said Harry, before he looked down at his hands and swallowed thickly. "So you could just ... take her place?"

"Indeed," was Voldemort's quiet answer.

Harry swallowed again. "S-so she signed me off, just like that? I guess she ... She must have been pretty happy to get rid of me, then."

After a stretched out pause, Voldemort replied in a stiff and fairly confounded voice. "You appear bothered by this ... Why? I distinctly recall you telling me how much you hate your aunt and uncle."

Slowly, Harry looked up from his hands and saw that Voldemort now sat leaning forwards in his chair, studying him with a slight tilt to the head. "I don't know," Harry said quietly, feeling lost. "I guess ... I just thought that, no matter how much we fought and hater each other ... we were still family."

"Would you have wanted to go back to them this summer?" Voldemort asked in a voice which was barely audible.

"No," Harry replied at once.

"So then, why are you not relieved?"

Looking over Voldemort's shoulder at Shamira, who was busy feeding on a slimy brown toad, coiling around it in tense loops, Harry decided on what to answer. "It just ... hurts, I guess ... to know that I was right about them; to know that they actually _were_ happy to get rid of me."

With a thoughtful hum, Voldemort leaned back in his chair again, laying his arms carefully onto the armrests. "Peculiar ... But then again, you do seem like the type who trusts easily."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Voldemort gave a small smile and picked up his book again, before flipping through it to the right page. "Just an observation ... Read the rest of the contract; _then_ , we shall speak further."

After studying the Dark Lord's half focused half amused expression for a couple of seconds, Harry picked the scroll up from where he had dropped it on the floor by his feet, and kept reading. Half-way through the last paragraph, a surprised question slipped past his lips. "You won't take my wand? But I thought –"

"Keep reading," Voldemort replied in a dismissive tone, and with a relieved smile, Harry did so. Upon reaching the last line of that same paragraph, however, the smile slipped right off his face.

"'The guilty party shall repent as is seen fit by the _Master_ '!?" he exclaimed in outrage and threw the contract to the side. "So if I do something wrong, you'll get to decide my punishment – but I don't get to decide yours? How's that fair?"

Calmly, Voldemort closed his book, reached out a hand and summoned the Apprentice Agreement, which rolled itself into a neat scroll while soaring through the air and into his open hand. "Our relationship isn't meant to be fair, Harry. I am your Master and your Guardian – not your host. And not your friend."

"I know that," Harry said, grimacing at the thought that Voldemort could ever be his _friend_. "I'm not stupid. I just meant that –"

"No, Harry, you are not stupid," Voldemort interrupted brusquely, "which is why I repeatedly take the time to keep you properly informed. You are mature enough to understand why it must be this way, are you not?"

Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but quickly snapped it closed as soon as he realised disagreeing would mean that he was _not_ mature and intelligent. Instead, he let out a deep sigh and looked to the side. "Yes, master."

After a quiet chuckle, and the sound of a drawer opening and closing, Voldemort asked: "Is there anything else you would like to ask?"

Looking out through the window next to the stack of basilisk tanks, Harry saw it had started to rain, and across the blue parts of the clouded sky, a rainbow could be spied. "What will happen, if one of us breaks the rules?"

"First of all," Voldemort replied readily, "the contract will make us not _want_ or desire to break the rules. But if we decide to do it anyway, the contract will punish us by severe mental torture; everything will feel as though it is very difficult; we will feel sick, weak and faint. Furthermore, the other person will know the instant a rule is broken. The person will get a mental image of what the guilty person saw and did during and the moment before it happened."

"Oh," Harry said quietly, still tracing the line of the rainbow with his gaze, counting how many colours he could spot.

"If you understand, I encourage you to use 'I see' or 'I understand' rather than such an undignified reply as 'oh'."

Letting out a mildly frustrated breath through his nose, Harry turned his head back around to look at Voldemort. "I understand, master."

"Very well," the Dark Lord allowed with a small nod. "If there is nothing else you would like to know, I suggest we continue with the day's tasks."

"All right," said Harry and arose from his seat, walking across the room towards Voldemort's desk with sure steps. "Do you have another spell for me to learn?"

"I do," Voldemort replied with a mysterious smile, "but I will have you do something else first. I trust you remember Mr Sirius Black, whom you have already met once."

"Yes," Harry allowed very cautiously, wondering at once what that murderer Black had to do with anything.

"I think it is about time you two met again," Voldemort said, studying Harry's expression intently as he propped his elbows up on his desk, knitted his fingers together and leaned his chin on his hands.

Harry felt his eyebrows travel up his forehead so far they were pushing against the rough skin of his scar. "Why?" he finally got out in a confounded whisper.

"He has asked to see you," Voldemort said, very simply.

"So?" Harry blurted thoughtlessly and twitched with discomfort as he watched Voldemort's expression cloud with anger. "Sorry, master," he hurriedly said, "I meant; that is nice and all, but, why do you want me to see him? Isn't he your prisoner? A murderer? Isn't he dangerous? He tried to attack me last time – I thought you wanted to keep me _out of_ danger."

"Well," Voldemort said and smoothed out his angry expression, "I shall answer those questions in reverse order. I do want to keep you safe, which is why you should have realised that I would never send you into danger myself. Thus, it is apparent that Black is not dangerous – at least not to you ... And he did not attempt to attack you last time; he disrespected you and tried to shield you from me, to protect you from what he thought was a danger ... Rest assured that he would sorely regret attempting something of a similar sort again. Moving on; he isn't a murderer, strictly, but he fought in the war, and there were causalities. But I believe your own father did more damage than he did. Very few are keeping count in the midst of battle ... And lastly; no, he is not my prisoner, but my ally. He has agreed to side with us in exchange for some ... benefits."

"Such as meeting with me?" Harry realised with great confusion. "Why would he want that? Just because he knew my parents?"

"Oh, he more than just knew them," Voldemort replied with a quirk to his lips. "As I understand it, he was close enough to them to be best man at their wedding ... Well, I am sure Black can fill you in much better than I can in that department."

"He was their friend?" Harry concluded, feeling a small spark of suspicious hope alighting inside his chest. Meeting Black again made him anxious – but if he had been friends with Harry's parents, perhaps he could tell him a bit about them.

"Like I said," Voldemort replied in a tired exhale, "you will have to ask him for further detail on the subject. Now, I met with him early this morning, and he has made an Unbreakable Vow not to deliberately harm you, amongst other things ... So I assure you that you will be quite safe. He is expecting you, most probably in that same bedroom as before. I left the door unlocked, but I very much doubt he has realised."

"Master," Harry said carefully, "you don't want me to go there by myself, do you?"

"I do," Voldemort disagreed calmly. "Black has requested it, and I do not see why not."

"But I," said Harry, feeling as though he had been tossed out of the frying pan and into the fire. "Are you sure?"

"Perfectly," Voldemort replied with a completely unreadable expression. "Why should I be there? To hold your hand?"

For some reason, the reply inspired a sharp jab in Harry's chest, and a cold feeling settled into his stomach as he mentally recoiled. "No, I was just checking," he lied in a polite tone of voice which rolled smoothly over his tense lips.

Voldemort observed him silently for a moment, but then smiled and gestured with his left hand, making the door behind his back creak open. "Very well, you may leave. Send my regards to Mr Black."

With a queasy feeling twisting his stomach, Harry turned and walked out of the office, not looking back once. As he descended the spiral staircase, he tried to shake the odd feeling that he had just been betrayed somehow. _It's not like I want to be lead around by the hand anyway_ , he told himself furiously. _I'm perfectly capable of doing this sort of thing myself._

" _He isn't doing this to hurt you, Harry,_ " James said in a soothing whisper. " _He's trying to teach you to be strong and independent._ "

 _I know_ , Harry thought, marching through the ground floor corridors towards the grand staircases. _I get it. It's fine._ Although, even though he meant that, the heavy feeling didn't go away.

Soon, he stood in front of the door of his old bedroom, feeling a completely different sort of queasiness wash over him. Gathering his courage, he drew in a deep breath, raised his tightly clenched fist and knocked three times on the dark wooden door. A moment passed during which everything around him went completely silent, as if time itself had stopped, and then, the door slowly, as though it was hesitating, slid open.

On the other end stood a tall, darkly handsome man, eyeing the door with wide grey eyes, glimmering with disbelief. It took Harry a second to realise that it was in fact Sirius Black standing in front of him and not some stranger; but even though he had come to that conclusion, he still felt a twinge of doubt since the man looked so very different from the last time Harry had seen him. The shaggy beard was completely gone, revealing a pale face with high cheekbones and a strong jaw-line; the tangled hair was cut, now reaching a little past his shoulders, looking smooth and luscious; the once very skeletal body looked fit and healthy; and the dirty grey rags were gone – exchanged for the same sort of simple black robes Harry himself was wearing.

The next second, Black looked away from the door and right at Harry, and he blinked once before a twitchy smile grazed over his otherwise rather defeated expression. "Harry," he said a quiet but soothingly warm voice. "Come on in – make yourself comfortable."

Watching as Black took a step back and made an inviting gesture with his right hand, Harry weighed back and forth on the threshold, feeling suddenly very reluctant to lock himself into a small room with a stranger who was supposedly safe but still a murderer. "Err," he uttered and took a small step back, "I was wondering ... if you'd like to go outside, sir."

"Outside?" Black repeated with a baffled expression. "I can go outside? No-one's gonna stop me?"

Harry shrugged in a way that he hoped looked aloof. "Sure, why not? Master left the door unlocked didn't he? I guess that means it's fine ..."

Black sent the door one last suspicious glance; then he squared his shoulders and took a big step out of the room. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get out of here then!" he said with a harried expression.

Without waiting for a reply, Black headed down the corridor with quick steps, and once Harry had snapped out of his stunned state, he was forced to break into a jog in order to catch up. He pursued the man past corners, staircases and dark-clad passers-by, all the way down to the ground floor, and he finally caught up with him by the grand front doors, where Black had stopped – hesitating with one hand on the handle.

"I haven't been outside for over ten years," he revealed in a quiet, rather raspy tone of voice. "Well," he continued a moment later in a clearer voice, "unrestrained, that is ..."

As he didn't know at all what to say to that, Harry remained silent; watching as Black seemed to be gathering his courage.

"Where should we go?" Black asked suddenly, making Harry jump a little.

"Err, well, anywhere, really," he replied. "I usually end up by the pier whenever I'm outside."

A grimace twisted Black's handsome face, and he glanced over his shoulder at Harry. "I'd rather we be somewhere else, if it's possible ..."

Wondering what might have made Black weary of the pier, Harry contemplated the possibilities for a short moment. "Below the cliff edge," he began hesitantly, "there are some caves ... we could meet there, if you want."

"Yes, that will do nicely," Black murmured and slowly turned back to the door. "Here goes," he whispered and slowly pressed the handle downwards. With a great _creak_ , the heavy wooden door slid open.

Once he had made up his mind, Black seemed completely unafraid, and boldly stepped out into the open, throwing his head back with a big, blissful grin. Stepping outside as well, Harry noticed with some relief that it had stopped raining, and that the sun was peeking out of a thick cover of plush white clouds, shining down at them with a warming glare.

Throwing his arms out to the sides, as if imagining spreading a set of wings, Black let out a sudden, bark-like laughter before taking a couple of deep breaths through his nose. "This is great!" he exclaimed and twisted around to face Harry. "The fresh air; the open sky! Harry, I've just _got to_ stretch my legs – I'll see you by the caves!"

The next moment, his form crumpled together, transforming into an elegant and rather healthy-looking black dog, which gave a few playful barks before skittering away at a neck-breaking speed right into the shallow pine forest. Watching it go, Harry let out a deep breath, feeling the tight knot in his stomach slowly unclench.

With one look up at the West Tower, wondering how long Voldemort expected him to entertain Black, Harry took the very slim and fairly steep path to the right, leading down to the side of the cliff, where a winding staircase was carved out of the stone. As he carefully descended it, the sun disappeared behind the thick cloud-blanket, casting the entire island in shadow, and once Harry set foot on the rough sand of the rocky shoreline, a sharp ocean breeze stole over him, making the edges of his robes dance and some cold air find its way to his naked legs. With a slight shiver, wondering why it had to be so bloody cold in the middle of July, he trekked the winding path of the shore until he arrived at the dark cave opening. There, he sat down on a nicely sized boulder and waited for Black to finish his run.

After a couple of minutes, during which Harry managed to rid himself of the odd feelings of worry, with the soothing whispers of encouragement from James, the black dog appeared, running through the shallow parts of the water towards him, making it splash in great cascades around him. With a foolishly joyful grin, the dog came up right in front of Harry and suddenly shook itself dry. Harry cried out in surprise as a shower of cold salt water hit him right in the face, and the dog barked at him happily before transforming back into a mischievously sniggering, sopping wet man.

"You've got something there," he said teasingly as he sank down onto his own boulder, wiping the worst of the water on his face away with his right sleeve.

With a tense smile, Harry wiped the water off his face too, keeping one eye stubbornly glued on Black, in case he decided to suddenly jump at him again. From the looks of it, Black didn't plan to, but seemed perfectly happy half-lying on the hard stone, somehow managing to look simultaneously careless and elegant.

"So," Harry stated once the silence had started to grow heavy, "why did you want to see me, sir?"

Black's smile grew suddenly very tense. "No need to call me sir, Harry. Sirius is fine."

Harry just stared. No adult had ever asked that of him – not even Hagrid, who went by his last name. "Are you sure?" he asked hesitantly, and received a casual half-smirk.

"Yeah, definitely. No-one's ever called me 'sir' before, so it just makes me feel old. And I also don't want there to be any distance between us. 'Sir' this and 'sir' that just makes everything so formal."

"Right," said Harry wearily, "so ... you want us to be friends, then?"

"If you'd like," Sirius answered quietly, looking away to the side as his face fell. "I don't know how much Voldemort has told you about me, but; I knew your parents."

"You were their friend," Harry confirmed solemnly.

"James's best friend, actually," Sirius clarified with a tint of pride in his gloomy eyes. "I was his best man at their wedding and ... they eventually made me your godfather."

"My godfather?" Harry breathed out, feeling a sharp pain pierce his chest at the thought that all his life, all this time, he'd had a godfather.

After giving a sharp nod, Sirius lowered his head, and a deep sadness welled up in his eyes. "Yes," he whispered, still looking away to the side. "I was supposed to look after you, if they ever ... But I couldn't I ... Peter, he ... I had to find him, kill him, because ..." With a suddenness which startled Harry, Sirius looked up at him, just as tears started to fall out of his reddening eyes. "He betrayed them. He was supposed to protect them, but he failed – he was their Secret Keeper, and he betrayed their location to Voldemort." After a short sniffle session, Sirius drew in a sharp breath, and kept on. "But it was my fault too – of only I hadn't doubted myself, perhaps they would've ... I convinced them to switch ... I was supposed to be their Secret Keeper, but I chickened out, I thought Peter, surely, was much less obvious a choice. I thought that, if everybody thought that it was _I_ , they would go after me and never find out the truth. But then he went and did that, and I ... I killed them, Harry," Sirius exclaimed with an expression of deepest remorse, and Harry couldn't help being gripped by sadness as well. Slowly, clutching at his heart, Sirius fell to his knees in front of Harry and bowed his head in repent. " _I_ killed them, Harry. I have waited ... ten years for a chance to tell you that ... and to tell you how terribly, _terribly_ , sorry I am ... I hope that, one day, you will forgive me."

Staring down at his supposed godfather, Harry felt torn between deep sorrow and feelings of discomfort. This grown man was sitting by his feet, bawling his eyes out; begging for his forgiveness, as if he was some sort of divinity, or way to absolution. _"The prophesy,_ " James supplied helpfully, and suddenly, Harry found his voice again.

"You couldn't have known that," he said quietly. "If you weren't the Secret Keeper, you had nothing to do with ... all that happened. You tried to help, but you were betrayed too ..."

Looking up with a mixture of heartbreaking sorrow, disbelieving wonder, and hope, Sirius reached out and clutched desperately at the hem of Harry's robes. "You forgive me?"

Gently, Harry smiled down at the broken man. "There is nothing to forgive. It was no-one's fault, really. Everybody just did what they thought that they had to do."

"Everybody?" Sirius wheezed out, suddenly growing very angry, grinding his teeth together. "Even Volde –"

"– How touching," sounded a soft, slightly mocking voice from the side, and looking at once very sharply to the left, Harry saw that Voldemort stood there, twirling his wand between his fingers.

Wiping furiously at his eyes, Sirius struggled to his feet, and once he was released, Harry sprang up from his seat and hurried over to Voldemort's side. Once he got there, he felt a strong sense of relief, as if a heavy weight had left his shoulders, and as he looked over at Sirius, he felt glad that he wasn't forced to being alone with the very intense and unpredictable man any longer.

"I must admit to finding myself intrigued by your choice of location for this meeting," Voldemort said coldly, aiming the remark entirely at Sirius, who stood straight-backed, looking at Harry with an expression of devastated worry.

"I wished to stretch my legs, my Lord," Sirius stated tensely, grimacing slightly as Voldemort's honorific rolled over his tongue. "Once I realised that I was not expected to keep to my room, I couldn't resist going outside. This spot seemed as good as any."

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully, and carefully laid his right hand onto Harry's left shoulder. "Very well. I trust you got what you wanted out of your meeting?"

"Yes, and no, my Lord," Sirius answered with strained politeness. "There are still many things I'd like to speak with Harry about."

"I see," replied Voldemort with feigned regret. "Well, I suppose that will have to be postponed to your next meeting. We are on a very tight schedule, you see, Mr Black."

After a tense moment of silence, Sirius forced a smile and gave a sharp nod. "So it would appear, my Lord ... I hope Harry doesn't feel strained by such pressure. It is supposed to be the summer holidays, after all."

In reply, Voldemort let out a soft chuckle and gently squeezed Harry's shoulder. "Dark Lords and their apprentices do not take vacations, I am afraid. But I do offer Harry a good deal of free time – and I am convinced that he would be the first to let me know if any of my actions or commands were lacking." As Sirius gave a humourless smile, Voldemort turned to Harry. "I shall return us to the tower, if you are ready?"

"Yeah," Harry replied before turning to look at Sirius. "I'll come talk to you again," he promised.

Slowly, a gentle smile brought some warmth into Sirius crushed expression. "Anytime you want," he said solemnly. "I'll be here."


	21. Chapter 21

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-One

* * *

" _That is very good, Harry,_ " hissed Voldemort's soothingly calm voice from the armchair next to him. " _Keep taking calm breaths ... inhale ... exhale ... inhale ... exhale ... yes, good ... keep your mind clear._ "

Lying on his back in the plush, blue sofa, Harry felt like he was floating in water. Everything was soft around him; calm and quiet. No worrying thoughts graced his mind; no memories of unstable godfathers, easily angered Dark Lords or acid Potions Professors came to mind. He just drifted there, listening to his master's soft-spoken words in Parseltongue, feeling at peace.

" _Yes, exactly ... Now keep steady ... and carefully focus your attention on the wand in your right hand ... don't raise it, or move it ... just take a firmer grip around the handle._ "

Very slowly, Harry did as told; sluggishly squeezing the handle of his wand until he felt soft warmth radiate out of it. A mental image of what his wand looked like flitted though his mind, but he immediately pushed the thought away, with a firm swipe of his consciousness.

" _Excellent,_ " Voldemort praised. " _Just so ... Now, aim your wand at yourself ... any body part will do, so do not open your eyes or pay it too much attention._ "

Carefully, Harry turned his hand over, so that the tip of the wand poked lightly into the soft part of his stomach.

" _Good, that will do ... Stay in this state ... And slowly, without thinking of anything else, imagine a protective bubble or all-encompassing barrier forming around your mind."_

With great effort, feeling beads of sweat form in his hairline, Harry forcefully created an image of a glowing light-blue bubble enclosing his consciousness. The image flitted in and out if his mind's eye and he had to struggle to keep other thoughts and images at bay, but judging by Voldemort's pleased hum, he seemed to think it was good enough.

" _Yes, and now, utter the incantation ... 'Occlumens'_."

Harry drew in a deep breath and focused as much as he could on the blue bubble. " _Occlumens_ ," he uttered quietly, and with a rush of mana flowing down his arm and out of his wand, he was hit with the spell and immediately felt a sort of stiffness spring alive around him.

"Yes!" Voldemort exclaimed triumphantly, in such a loud voice that Harry lost all control of his meditative state. "Yes, that is it exactly, Harry. It is complete."

With a grin forming on his face, Harry opened his eyes and sat up, meeting eyes with Voldemort, who sat leaning forwards in his chair, studying him with a gleeful expression that inspired a pleasantly warm feeling deep down in Harry's stomach. He'd made Voldemort proud.

"Really?" he asked excitedly. "James can't speak to me now?"

For a second, confusion flitted across the Dark Lord's expression, and then the realisation made his brows fold into a frown. "I would deem it rather ... unwise naming a piece of one's _very own_ soul after one's late father."

"Oh," Harry and hurriedly shook his head, "no it's not like that! It's not after my dad; it's my middle name ... I just did it to make this seem a bit simpler, that's all. I know that he and I are the same."

"I see," Voldemort murmured, leaning back in his chair and looking rather relieved. "To answer your question; no, he cannot. Try, if you are curious."

After a couple of mental tries of calling out James's name, an endeavour which inspired no replies, Harry grinned up at his bemused-looking master. "No, you're right. He can't!"

"Precisely," Voldemort said with a small quirk to his lips. "You have done well. The ground work is complete, and we can start to build from here. From this point on, you shall practice on this every night before you sleep. You shall start with shielding your entire mind, like you just did, but once you feel comfortable enough with the spell to try it out, you shall start to shield specific memories instead. Do you feel comfortable with this?"

"I do, master," Harry replied quietly, and sank back in his seat, feeling rather drained from the hard work. "It'll be good to get some privacy sometimes."

Slowly drumming the fingers of his right hand against the plush armchair armrest, Voldemort studied him closely. "As long as you do not use it unnecessarily. Recall what I have taught you. Occlumency is a very draining practice – especially to a young wizard with little training in controlling his mana flow. Speaking of which, how do you feel?"

"Tired," Harry revealed with a small smile, "but I think it's mostly because it was so hard to do it... By the way – why did you use Parseltongue?"

"Do not change the subject, and do not base your conclusions on guesswork," Voldemort chided in a quiet voice and stilled his hand, before he leaned forwards in his seat and narrowed his eyes. "I shall enlighten you if you wish – but your face grows paler by the minute. Now, sit back and close your eyes. Pay attention as I dismantle your shield, so that you might repeat the practice yourself the next time you have Occluded your mind."

With a weak nod, Harry did as told and did his best to think of nothing and not worry about what was about to happen. After a short pause, a foreign force slipped softly, but surely up against the shield around his mind; like a chilling gust of wind, wrapping itself around him in a swirl. He felt how it moved around his Occlumency Shield, and how it suddenly pierced and pushed through it as though it had been made out of butter. The careful attack made the bubble break apart and seep away, and at once, Harry felt a link between himself and the shield snap. Once the link was broken, he felt lighter and strengthened, and he let out a deep breath before opening his eyes, feeling relieved.

 _James?_ Harry tried tentatively, and when a patient voice replied with a deadpan _"Harry,"_ he smiled up at Voldemort's expectant face. "It worked," he said and straightened in his seat. "I can hear James again."

"And you feel better?" Voldemort pressed on, watching Harry's weary expression as though evaluating if he would lie or not.

"Yes, master," said Harry calmly, but with slight impatience.

"And you understood the mechanics of dismantling an Occlumency Shield?" Voldemort asked and relaxed his examining stare.

"Yeah – Err, yes, master. I think so," Harry replied with a small smile.

"Good," Voldemort murmured and leaned back in his chair. "Then, I feel confident that you will practice and manage it tonight without assistance. Doing it yourself requires working from the inside out, and it is far simpler than attempting the same on another person's mind. However, the method is largely the same ... Now, it is a couple of hours left before dinner at seven, and I do not have the time for any more lessons myself. However, I have asked my Head Healer, Mr Ilbert Abbott, to teach you some useful Healing Magic, if you do not feel too drained?"

Harry blinked in surprise and felt a sting of excitement. "No, it's fine – what kind of Healing Magic?" _Would he learn how to mend broken bones and close open wounds? That would be extremely useful!_

"Oh, something basic, I am sure," Voldemort supplied with a small smile. "Ilbert has had a penchant for using potions ever since Hogwarts –"

At the notion of being sent to a Potions lesson, Harry sneered and felt a deep sense of dread.

"– so it would not surprise me if he has chosen to teach you how to brew some useful concoction." A darkly amused expression transformed the Dark Lord's face as he caught sight of Harry's far from enthusiastic countenance, and he let out a low chuckle. "Do not despair. I am sure that Ilbert is a far more patient teacher than Severus Snape was."

"He'd better be," Harry muttered quietly before sighing and meeting eyes with his humoured master. "All right, so where am I supposed to go?"

"Elf!" Voldemort called out and swiftly arose from his seat, a motion which Harry mimicked right before a sharp _pop_ was heard from his right, where the frail-looking Bleak had appeared.

"Yes, master?" she asked in a tiny squeak and twinned her hands together with an expectant expression.

"Lead Harry to Healer Abbott," Voldemort instructed shortly before striding over to his desk and sitting down.

"Yes, master, Bleak will," the house-elf promised with a deep curtsey before scurrying towards the door, which she then opened and held up.

Harry followed her and was nearly out the door when Voldemort spoke unexpectedly, halting him in his tracks. "By the way, since you asked; I used Parseltongue because you have proven to react well to it. It appears to soothe you, and you make very fast progress in the state of mind it inspires in you."

"Oh. Is that weird?" Harry asked over his shoulder, and watched his master raise his eyebrows.

"Weird? No. Intriguing? Yes," he replied smoothly. "I have never had the opportunity to interact to any great length with another Parselmouth before, which is why some details are still left unexplored. However, my guess is that it has something to do with our bond and the familiarity of a shared, magical language – there certainly must be some rational explanation."

With a small smile, feeling rather relieved that his reaction to Parseltongue didn't add to his already rather extensive freakishness, Harry followed Bleak to the dungeons and resigned himself to the fact that he would have to give potions brewing a second chance.

* * *

Slipping softly from his office to the battlements surrounding the roof of the fortress, Apparating soundlessly a few paces away from his destination, Voldemort took in the soft warmth of the descending sun and drew in a deep breath of the fresh ocean air. Then, quietly, he walked up to the hunched man, sitting staring out at the water with a vacant expression, clutching a slate grey wand in his right hand.

"Hiding again?" Voldemort suddenly called out, making Black jump in surprise and snap his head around to look at him with startled eyes. With a small chuckle, Voldemort walked up to Black's slowly relaxing form, getting a sudden urge to push the man over the edge of the stone railing he was sitting on. "You appear to have a tendency to end up in odd places," he said with a mocking grin. "It's as if you're deliberately seeking out solitude ..."

"Perhaps I am," Black muttered quietly, glaring out at the billowing ocean again. "I haven't been around people for over ten years ... Acting nice is pretty draining."

"That is understandable," Voldemort allowed indifferently and leaned casually against the railing as he, too, kept his eyes nailed to the water mass. "It is a relief that your solitude is not inspired by undesirable company."

In reaction, Black scoffed and looked down at the wand in his clenched fist. "Sorry to disappoint you, then. I have no friends here ... Many enemies, though. My work as an Auror seems to have been ... less than impressive, in their opinion. Can't blame the bastards – I don't find their work particularly impressive either."

"Careful," Voldemort murmured with a humoured twitch playing in the right corner of his mouth, "or I might think you have changed your mind."

Black grimaced uglily. "No," he said with a deep sigh and started glaring off into the distance again. "I took the damn vow, didn't I?"

"You did," Voldemort allowed, "but that only had to do with Harry; not your own position."

"Doesn't matter," Black claimed darkly. "It's an Unbreakable Vow – it means I'm bound to you now. To your will."

"I was under the impression that Harry's security was a personal interest of yours," Voldemort argued quietly. "So keeping him from harm's way should be as much your own will as mine."

"What are you getting at?" Black asked with a deep frown that aged his face immensely.

A crooked smirk curled Voldemort's lips. _Quite the fool, aren't we?_ In the back of his mind, several soul shards readily agreed, sharing wicked sniggers. "That it was a mere formality," Voldemort explained neutrally. "However, come midnight, you _will_ be bound to me."

Tensely clenching his jaw, Black turned to meet eyes with him. "I know that," he claimed solemnly.

"Good," Voldemort responded quietly, "because if you _do not_ succumb willingly, sincerely, you will not survive it. And what a tragedy that would be; particularly since Harry will attend." Black's face went suddenly pale as a sheet. "How terrible for him, were he to watch his long lost godfather fizzle out and die, just when he had learned of his existence."

Furiously grinding his teeth together, hunching his shoulders, Black glowered up at him. "He won't; I won't let that happen. I'll do it."

"See that you do," Voldemort replied coldly, still smirking, holding Black's gaze until he yielded and looked away. Victorious, Voldemort straightened from his leaning position and took a small step back. "Perhaps after tonight, you _will_ have friends here ... unless you decide to burglarise more of them; not a very endearing quality, I must say ... How is Rodolphus's wand working out for you?"

"Like a charm," Black growled and looked about ready to toss the wand into the sea below.

"Pity," Voldemort allowed neutrally, "but that is to be expected. You appear to have a good deal more mana than him ... You'd need a better match – something that will be provided for you after tonight, of course."

With a startled expression, Black twisted around in his seat to look straight at him. "I'll get a wand?" he breathed out with great suspicion. "I'll just _get_ one?"

"Naturally," Voldemort replied simply. "Why ever would you be expected to make do without one? Can't I trust you with a wand, Black?"

Still peering at him suspiciously, Black climbed off the railing and stood to face him head on. "You have gone to great lengths making sure you can trust me. Seems to me the question is 'can I trust you'."

"You could still betray me, if you wished," Voldemort said in a very quiet, very cold voice that made a previously veiled fierceness sparkle alive in Black's eyes.

"Not as long as you have Harry, and you know that," he replied, just as quietly, but with a lot more bite. "And besides – why would I choose to when it would mean a continued life in captivity. No, it's not you who can't trust me, _my Lord_. What do you expect of me – what is your great scheme? Why spare me, why help me, when I have fought against you in the past?"

 _Ah, and there it is_ , Voldemort thought with glee. _Just like so many before you, your weakness is curiosity. How predictable_. Forcing his malicious smile to soften, Voldemort moulded his own body language to instil security in his target. "Because you have great value to me," he replied calmly, "as a person and as a wizard, and I do not enjoy seeing great skill and power wasted. You have fought against me in the past, that is true – but who were you then? An idealistic youngster with very little life experience. You didn't know back then how corrupt the Ministry is, and how little freedom a wizard like yourself had to make his own decisions. But you know that now; first hand. Although innocent, you were imprisoned for more than a decade – and it was supposed to be for life, wasn't it? How could I pass up on the opportunity to get you on my side? If you think about it, very few people have as much reason to wish to change the Magical Society as much as you do. Not only because of what you have been put through yourself, but also because of what your godson was put through in your absence."

At once, Black's gaze turned knife-sharp. "What do you mean?" he demanded hotly.

 _Hook, line and sinker_ , Voldemort thought triumphantly as he schooled his expression into solemnity. "You are aware of what conditions Harry grew up under, are you not?"

Doubt travelled into Black's cold-grey eyes. "I haven't had the chance to ask him yet, but ... Lily's sister; surely, she's the one who took him?"

"Yes, she took him," Voldemort allowed and deliberately made a pause. "But not much else – from what I can tell, Harry was severely neglected and abused by his relatives."

"He was beaten?" Black gasped with horror.

"As I understand it," Voldemort said slowly, "he was systematically abused, both physically and verbally, by his older cousin – his adult guardians did not strike him, however, they do not appear to have discouraged the cousin in any way. As a matter of fact, they appear to have rather encouraged him in his abuse ... Actually, Harry seems to be far more scarred by their neglect than his cousin's beatings."

"Of course he is," Black rasped out with murder burning in his eyes. "When someone who's supposed to look after you treats you like that –" Black broke off and looked away, clearly haunted by memories of his own dark past. "If I only hadn't gone back then," he whispered to himself, "I could have prevented ..."

"Be that as it may," Voldemort said in a clear voice, "you did not make that choice deliberately. However, there were people who did know; who did have a choice; and who did nothing to remedy the situation or to help Harry in any way. The Ministry is, naturally, a culprit. A magical child shouldn't have to suffer such abuse without a chance to escape and get rehabilitated. Moreover, the person who placed him there in the first place should have made sure it was a suitable home for him, do you not agree?"

With a red tint to the whites of his eyes, Black looked up at him. "Who?"

Voldemort very barely refrained from crackling evilly. "Albus Dumbledore."

After a wave of shock and betrayal washed across Black's face, deadly determination settled in, and he set his jaw before taking a bold step forwards, holding out the slate grey wand in front of him in an offering gesture. "I get it. I'll be ready by midnight, my Lord. I promise."

* * *

A sharp feeling of doubt rushed through him as there was a sharp knock on his front door, and once again, Severus wondered whether he had come to the right decision or not. The Unbreakable Vow he'd taken compelled him to make this choice, because if he succeeded, Potter would be safer than he was currently. However, the vow itself was purely mathematical and didn't consider surrounding matters or consequences of failure and thus shouldn't be trusted completely. Still, he knew he would have to act soon, or the vow would be considered broken and he would die – and what use would he be to Potter then?

Not letting the doubts faze him, Severus turned away from his position by the window, looking out to his ordered chaos of a garden, and opened up the door for his guest.

"Good evening, Headmaster," he greeted solemnly and stood back from the slim opening, so that the older man might push past.

"Good evening, Severus," Dumbledore replied in a rather chipper tone as he crossed the threshold and let his eyes roam around the rather cramped living room. "How kind of you to invite me."

As Dumbledore walked further into the room, stopping momentarily to look with great interest at the Muggle painting hanging over the mantelpiece of his quietly crackling fireplace, Severus twisted his face into a sneer. "Would you care for some tea, sir?" he asked with great reluctance as Dumbledore sank down into the threadbare sofa with a content sigh.

"Yes please, Severus, that would be lovely," he said with a warm smile. "I take two sugars, but no milk."

With a sharp, acknowledging nod, Severus slipped into the kitchen and poured from the kettle he had already prepared. While putting sugars in one of the tea cups, he steeled himself for the final time, forcing his own mind to accept that he had come to a decision. As he strode out of the kitchen, the tea cups followed him obediently and landed themselves onto the coffee table in between the sofa and the armchair into which Severus seated himself in.

"Thank you," Dumbledore murmured with appreciation and lifted the steaming cup to his lips.

"Did the meeting go well?" Severus asked tensely and took a sip of his own tea, keeping a close eye on Dumbledore's expression.

"As well as could be expected," replied Dumbledore with a humoured twitch of his lips. "Nicolas and Perenelle are both, sadly, at the very brink of death. But they have been immensely helpful, truly."

"In that they have recruited the French?" Severus pressed quietly.

"A few," Dumbledore allowed and took another sip of his tea. "The name 'Flamel' inspires quite the respect, still, in France and many of their old friends have agreed to support the Order ... in any way that they can."

"Meaning?" Severus asked stiffly. "Are we speaking three or thirty?"

With a small, regretful smile, Dumbledore put down the cup onto the saucer and placed them both onto the table. "I understand the curiosity, Severus, but I beg you to stay patient. As long as Voldemort has the upper hand, in that we cannot move until he has made his move, we cannot risk revealing our own plans and numbers."

 _Ah, Dumbledore_ , Severus thought acidly _, here we are again. Once more, you prove how little faith you have in me_.

"Very well," Severus hissed with a ferocious glare. "I will just have to _trust_ that you have the situation under control then, Headmaster."

"We could all use a little more trust, I think," Dumbledore replied with an apologetic, and yet sharp, expression. "Especially in times such as this, when we are left reliant on each other to make a stand against evil." When Severus offered no reply, but only paid attention his teacup, Dumbledore leaned back in his seat and smiled kindly. "I was greatly relieved by your news, Severus. After weeks of mere whispers and suggestions of his survival, it is a great relief to learn that Harry is alive and well."

"Agreed," Severus murmured over the rim of his cup.

"I find it surprising that Voldemort chose to keep it secret from you," Dumbledore mused, stroking his long beard in thought. "I would have thought Tom would have liked to dangle him in front of your nose at first opportune moment; I do not know whether I should be relieved or not to have failed in my analysis."

"I believe he wanted to keep you unaware for as long as possible, sir," Severus lied smoothly. "But now that he has lost part of his army and has had to change his plans, it is probable that his plans for Potter are being altered as well."

"Yes that is possible," Dumbledore agreed thoughtfully. "But one has to wonder what those plans _are_. Why keep Harry alive? Why make him an apprentice? It is, of course a great relief that he has decided to do so – but it is peculiar. What value could the boy possibly have to him? He must remember the prophecy – and yet, he doesn't seem to care."

"It is odd, I agree, Headmaster," Severus agreed tensely. "Perhaps Potter possesses knowledge on the matter that we do not."

"Yes, we will have to hope so," Dumbledore said and pierced Severus with a suddenly very serious and sharp gaze. "You mentioned a plot to break him out."

"Yes," said Severus with a sharp nod. "I can get him out, but I will require some ... assistance."

* * *

Despite the late hour, Harry found himself walking out of the grand front gates of Ravenclaw Fortress a little before midnight, following closely behind Bleak as she lead him into the shrubbery of the dark pine forest. Having grown fairly accustomed to the elf's quick and rather dexterous gait, Harry moved smoothly over the uneven ground, keeping his eyes trained on the warm glow coming from a clearing further ahead.

After his lengthy healing lesson amongst the many Potion Brewers in the cellar, during which shrivelled old Healer Abbott had made him brew a rather foul-smelling concoction that was supposed to staunch heavy blood flow, and after having had dinner in the grand Dining Hall, Harry had been told, quite sternly, by Voldemort to squeeze in a good nap in his evening activities, since he was expected to be wide awake around midnight. What Harry was supposed to be wide awake _for_ , he hadn't learned.

Trekking on, Harry saw that the light appeared to come from a large bonfire in the middle of the glen ahead, and once he had stepped out of the thick shrubbery and into the clearing, Bleak stopped and turned around before curtseying deeply to him. "Mr Harry Potter has arrived where master ordered Bleak to take him."

"Thank you," Harry murmured and pointedly ignored the infuriated look the little elf sent him for his politeness.

Without another word, she Disapparated, and at once Harry scanned the clearing for the familiar shape that was his master. There were several people in dark robes and cloaks moving around the fairly circular space around the blazing bonfire; some whom Harry recognised, but many whom he didn't. The first familiar face he saw was Sirius Black's, but not wishing to be seen and approached by the very unstable man for a second time that day, Harry moved off to the side and out of Black's line of sight. The second person he recognised was the young man who had approached him at breakfast a couple of days ago, introducing himself as Scabior and nothing else. He stood chatting amiably with a lanky, rather hare-like man and a regal-looking woman whom Harry vaguely recognised from somewhere.

Finally, his eyes found Voldemort's dark-clad form, a little off the side in the clearing, where he stood looking up at the half-dark sky, murmuring something to himself. Harry approached, and once he got close enough, he heard that his master seemed to be chanting something in Latin. Not thinking it wise to disturb, Harry settled by his side and kept a watchful eye on the proceedings around the bonfire.

A little after his own arrival, Healer Abbott limped into the clearing, leaning heavily on a polished black walking stick. In his belt hung a great number of fat leather pouches – more than he normally wore – and they made his hips swing oddly as he kept up his slow gait and approached the preoccupied Dark Lord.

"Mr Potter," he said to Harry in passing, and they both nodded to each other in acknowledgement. Harry watched reflections of the flames dance around in Healer Abbott's thick lenses as he slowly moved over to the Dark Lord and discretely cleared his throat to signal that he had arrived.

Very slowly Voldemort lowered his gaze, finished his chant and turned around. For some reason, his slitted eyes seemed to glow in the dark, shining brightly red – as if glowing from within with some powerful magic. "Is everything prepared?" he asked in an ethereal voice, looking deep into the old healer's eyes.

Stiffly, Healer Abbott nodded. "Yes, my Lord. It is time."

"Excellent," Voldemort praised quietly and slowly turned to look straight at Harry; his eyes glowing red as embers. "Tell them to ready themselves," he commanded dismissively as he walked up to Harry and laid a steady hand onto his right shoulder. "I have a very important task for you."

At once, butterflies came alive in Harry's stomach and he swallowed thickly. "What is that, master?" he asked in a whisper.

A wide smile spread across Voldemort's face, and Harry mused that he once might have thought such a smile to be malicious, but now he only saw excitement and affection in it, and it made him calm down ever so slightly. With fluid movements, Voldemort reached down into his left robe pocket and took out a small crystal vial with a clear liquid within it. "This is Veritaserum," Voldemort explained as he handed it over to Harry, who accepted it with careful hands. "It is a Truth Serum and an important part of the Ceremony. I want you to stay by my side throughout, and when I tell you, to drop one drop onto your finger – just one drop – and then place it onto the tongue of the person in front of us. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master," Harry replied, carefully committing the instructions to memory. "But I don't understand what's going on – what is the Ceremony going to do exactly?"

Voldemort looked about to tell him, but stopped himself with an amused twitch to his lips. "We shall see how long it takes for you to figure it out on your own. It will be good practice."

With one last, amused look at Harry's affronted expression, Voldemort turned away and gracefully strode towards the bonfire, efficiently receiving the rapt attention of every single person surrounding it. Under their watchful eyes, Voldemort placed himself so that he stood facing the waning gibbous moon, shining down from above the blazing fire warming their faces. Tentatively, clutching the vial tightly in his fist, Harry stepped up to Voldemort's right and waited with great anticipation for whatever was to come.

For a long moment, nothing at all happened. If not for the loud crackling of the fire, the moonlit glen would have been eerily quiet. But then, Healer Abbott, who had discarded his walking stick, stepped up to Voldemort and kneeled in front of him.

"I come before thee, my Lord and master,

I, your hands and mouth – an extension of your power,

to honour and serve thee, tonight and beyond,

as is your will and your need."

With measured movements, Voldemort reached out with his right hand and placed the three tips of his index, middle and ring finger lightly on the old man's wrinkled forehead. "I, Lord Voldemort, accept."

A pulse of black smoke radiated out of Voldemort's fingertips, and it moved into Healer Abbott's forehead, before vanishing from sight completely. Then, shakily but determinedly, the old wizard got back on his feet, curtseyed, and moved to stand in between Voldemort and the fire, digging his hand into the fattest of his leather pouches and then tossing a handful acid-green powder into the fire. At once, the fire erupted up towards the night sky and turned the same shade of acid-green, and watching it, a stark feeling of recognition sparkled alive in Harry. _A green bonfire_ , he thought with widening eyes. _Wait, it must be the Marking Ceremony!_

" _Bingo!"_ replied James sardonically in the back of his mind, and instantly, a wave of nausea and anxiety swept over Harry's entire being. He recalled his second night on the island, the night he'd lost Hedwig, and got a vivid memory of a terrible, desperate scream with terror and utmost pain. Worriedly, he flicked his eyes this way and that, trying to discern what about the Ceremony would be so horrifyingly painful.

Under his watchful gaze, Healer Abbott walked around the circle of soon-to-be Death Eaters, making them drink out of a silver chalice adorned with emeralds. As the cup was lifted to Scabior's pale lips, a trail of thick, deep red liquid escaped the left corner of his mouth and travelled down his neck, making him look like a vampire the moment the chalice was removed. Heart beating fast, Harry kept a close eye on the proceedings, not letting anything escape him. Dully, seemingly from no-where, the slow beating of a drum started, resonating eerily like heartbeats in his chest.

Once Healer Abbott had fed everyone the blood-like drink, he turned to the person immediately to Harry's right; the strangely familiar woman who was tall, dark skinned and had a pair of strikingly pale green eyes. Without a word, the healer beckoned her with a gesture, and she obediently followed him to the other side of the raging fire. Through it, Harry saw her shape step up to the edge of the bonfire, and to his utter horrification, into it.

The dark shape moved slowly through the green flames, seemingly without struggle, and after a short moment, during which the beating of the drum escalated to an ear-splitting volume, the witch emerged through the flames in front of them, looking completely unscathed.

With smooth motions, like the proud prancing of a lion, she moved up to stand in front of Voldemort and Harry, before kneeling in front of them. Without a word, she closed her eyes, leaned back her head and opened up her mouth.

" _Now, Harry_ ," Voldemort hissed discretely, and with a surprised jerk, Harry recalled that he had a task to complete. He fiddled with the bottle, his hands clammy and shaking with nervousness, but he managed to pry the lid open. After nearly dropping the flask, he took it in a firmer grip and dripped a single drop onto the tip of his index finger before slowly, hesitantly reaching out towards the woman's open mouth and placing it on her soft, pink tongue. Once he was done, he quickly retracted his hand, and watched as the witch closed her mouth and swallowed, before looking up at Voldemort with ferocious determination burning bright in her eyes.

"I pledge to thee, my Lord and master, my loyalty and faith;  
my love and affection; my weakness and strength,  
to do with as you see fit, from this point on and forever.  
I lay myself into thy hands; mind, body and soul;  
to wield and use; to cherish and hold; from this point on and forever."

The woman kept eye-contact with Voldemort for a long, silent moment, before he gently nodded. Then, she rolled up the sleeve of her left arm and held out the appendage in offering to her new master. Harry watched, wide-eyed, as Voldemort took it in a firm grip around her elbow before cruelly pushing the tip of his wand into the soft underside of her arm. In a low and rather hissy voice, he started chanting to the beat of the drum, and all throughout, the witch looked to be steeling herself for something. Then, with finality, Voldemort intoned " _Morsmordre!"_ and at once, the woman scrunched up her face and let out a terrible scream.

Harry shivered from head to toe, watching her suffer, and whishing it all to stop. Just as he thought it, Voldemort retracted his wand and his hands, and the woman slumped at his feet, falling completely silent.

"Arise, Odelia Thorn; Death Eater, Dark Sorceress and servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort," Voldemort proclaimed royally, and after shakily standing up, eyes clouded with residue pain, Thorn curtseyed lowly at her new master and retook her place in the circle to Harry's right.

Before Harry could calm himself down from the terror of watching a person put through torture, the next person in like followed Healer Abbott to the other side of the bonfire and walked through the flames. Harry watched dully as the tall, muscular man kneeled in front of them, and shakily placed a drop of Veritaserum on his outstretched, rather dry tongue.

After he had recited the pledge, Harry braced himself and watched Voldemort lean in and brand the man's thick and rather hairy arm with his vicious-looking mark. To Harry's utmost relief, the man did not scream with the pain, but clenched his teeth together against it with a look of utmost concentration. Apparently, his pain tolerance was higher than Thorn's had been.

"Arise, Winston Yaxley; Death Eater, Dark Sorcerer and servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort," Voldemort proclaimed, and after a deep curtsey, Yaxley returned to his spot in the circle, showing no signs of being in any pain whatsoever.

After Yaxley followed a trail of men and women, who, in quick succession, passed through the fire, took a drop of Veritaserum, pledged and received the Dark Mark. Most of them screamed, but not all, and every time any of them refrained, Harry let out a relieved sigh.

Starting to get at least a little used to the routine of it all, Harry watched as the last but one person followed Healer Abbott to the edge of the bonfire. Scabior looked to the side at him, his bloodstained lips sporting a cocky and excited grin, and he winked mischievously before walking behind the flames and out of sight. Feeling a lot better from the young man's bold attitude, Harry relaxed even more and thought to himself that these people knew what they were getting into, and that they were not afraid. _So I shouldn't be either_ , he thought resolutely to himself, and in the back of his mind, James agreed.

Staring right at Scabior's slim silhouette, barely visible through the fire, Harry watched as the young wizard took a bold step into the fire, and promptly recoiled. A terrible, soul-piercing scream sounded, ringing in horrifying echoes all around them, and off to the side of the bonfire, a thin shape, completely engulfed by vicious green flames, emerged. Scabior was flailing about desperately, screaming and crying out for help; but no-body moved a muscle. Throat full of terror, Harry made to bolt forwards, digging through his pockets to retrieve his wand, but a painful grip around the back of his neck nailed him to the spot.

" _Stay still_ ," hissed Voldemort in a quiet whisper, and at once, Harry felt a strong gust of soothing feelings stream into his terrified mind. " _He has proven unworthy of our time ... He may have become one of those who try to ruin us from the inside; a spy, or something of the like. The Ceremonial Trial refused him, and so you shall pay him no more attention._ "

But knowing where the soothing feeling came from, Harry couldn't let it affect him, but kept struggling in Voldemort's hold until it tightened enough to send a sharp pain down his entire back.

" _You will not interrupt the Ceremony_ ," Voldemort hissed in a hair-raising voice, and as they both watched, Healer Abbott lead the last person from his spot next to the Dark Lord and up to the fire. Walking slowly, Sirius looked over his shoulder at Harry, his eyes shining like a pair of sharp blades in the light of the fire. Harry watched, terrified, how his godfather became a silhouette behind the fire, and his heart beat loudly as the drum as Sirius took a step into the acidly green flames. Harry nearly screamed out in terror, but instead sagged in relief when he saw the shape move closer and closer, until it emerged unscathed at the other side.

Overcome with terror-infused relief, Harry's eyes blurred with unshed tears and his breaths came out as gasps. Subconsciously, he knew that Voldemort had released his neck, but he still stood rooted in place, transfixed by the sight of Sirius Black, who knelt in front of him, held his gaze and opened his mouth. As though through a trance, Harry poured a drop of Veritaserum onto his fingertip and placed it in Sirius's mouth, which closed as soon as he had retracted his finger. Still keeping eye contact with him, something that to Harry seemed increasingly comforting, Sirius spoke.

"I pledge to thee, my Lord and master, my loyalty and faith;  
my love and affection; my weakness and strength,  
to do with as you see fit, from this point on and forever.  
I lay myself into thy hands; mind, body and soul;  
to wield and use; to cherish and hold; from this point on and forever."

If Voldemort was angered by the fact that Sirius hadn't looked once at him as he pledged, he didn't show it, but only held out his right hand in a demanding gesture. Sirius didn't scream, and didn't show any sign of pain all throughout his marking, but only looked at Harry with affection radiating out of his grey eyes.

"Arise, Sirius Black; Death Eater, Dark Sorcerer and servant of the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Then, in a blur, the Ceremony was over. Voldemort spoke to his new followers, but Harry didn't pay any attention to that. As soon as his master's focus shifted off him, he bolted across the glen, zigzagging between black-clad people, and fell to his knees by Scabior's fallen form. He lay face-down in the moss, still burning in a couple of places. Drawing in a shivering breath, Harry dug out his wand and hurriedly whispered " _Decendio!_ " to extinguish the flames.

With the flames went all Harry's remaining strength, and he slumped at the scorched young man's side, wallowing in guilt. _He's dead, and I didn't help him. I just stood there. Perhaps, if I'd only just ..._

" _Didn't you listen to what Voldemort said?_ " James interposed impatiently. " _He wasn't worthy. He went into this willingly, knowing that there was a chance he wouldn't make it. What if he was another spy?_ "

With dark fury, Harry turned on James. _You're on his side? You think he's right? Scabior is dead!_

" _Why do you care?_ " James returned with honest confusion. " _You only met him once, and as I recall, you didn't like him very much then._ "

 _What does that matter?_ Harry questioned with growing ire. _He didn't do anything! He didn't deserve to die!_

" _Yes he did,_ " James contradicted pointedly. " _He failed, so he should die._ "

 _You don't understand_ , Harry concluded darkly. _How can you not understand – you're supposed to be ME!_

Not giving his separated soul-shard any chance to defend himself, Harry emptied his mind with steeled determination and pointed his wand at his own chest. " _Occlumens!_ "

Shakily, the shield sprang up around his mind, and at once, a heavy cloak of fatigue came over him. Blinking away the tears clouding his vision, Harry saw Voldemort's dark form approach. As he fell to the side, overcome by sleep, he thought darkly to himself that he had been right all along; Voldemort _was_ evil.


	22. Chapter 22

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Two

* * *

The sun shone uncomfortably warm in his face when Harry violently twisted awake, clammy and twitchy from the night's gruesome nightmares. The smell of burning human flesh clung persistently to his nose, and the sight of the charred young man lying face down had become a vividly sharp after-image. He remembered the screams of terror and shivered, curling up under the covers and clutching a pillow over his head, wishing it could have been but a dream. But he knew, all too well, that it hadn't.

In the outer corners of his consciousness, he felt James's tentative presence, but ignored it stoically; a feat he did not manage when it came to the ominous presence hovering at his bedside. Keeping completely silent under the duvet, Harry felt the mattress sink down at his feet as Voldemort took a seat. After a long moment of complete silence, Harry lowered the pillow from his head and sat up against the headboard, levelling a blank stare at Voldemort's impassive face.

"So, one of your little spies told you I was awake, then."

Voldemort didn't seem to think the exclamation warranted an answer, but only sat still, staring back at him patiently.

After briefly squeezing his eyes together against a vivid image of Scabior's burning corpse, Harry snapped his eyes open before narrowing them into a dark glare. "You lied to me," he accused, feeling a thickness start to burn in the back of his throat. "When I asked you if you would make me do horrible things ... you said that you wouldn't force me to do anything. You said that I would always have a choice –" To his great embarrassment, his voice quivered into a sob, and he hid his mouth behind his hand, noticing absentmindedly that it shivered.

While he was collecting himself, Voldemort sat still, not making any sign of speaking. His soft gaze kept watch over Harry as he calmed his breathing and swallowed compulsively, and he seemed not at all fazed by the accusations.

"How could you just let him die?" Harry exclaimed forcefully, growing incensed by Voldemort's utter lack of a reaction. "How could you all just stand there and _ignore_ his cries for help?" A fresh wave of memories washed over his senses, and as nausea made itself known inside his aching belly, Harry felt a trail of warm tears start to leak out the sides of his eyes. "He was _on your side_!" he screamed, clutching the pillow against his chest in an effort not to toss it right at Voldemort's expressionless face. "He didn't do anything to you! And you just stood there! You just stood there and you forced me to just watch as he _burned alive_! You sick bastard! You _evil_ , sick _bastard_!"

Chest aching with betrayal, Harry slid out of bed on the opposite side of Voldemort and hurriedly padded on his naked feet across the cold stone floor towards the door. Once he reached it and pulled at the handle, he was met with dull refusal, and at once, the anger was back. "Let me out!" he demanded without turning around, breathing heavily in order to stop himself from breaking down into frustrated sobs. "Will you let me _out_!" he demanded more forcefully and whipped around, meeting eyes with his tormentor, who had turned around in his seat to face him, but who had not changed his expression in any noticeable way. The silence following his outburst lay thick as a blanket, and finding it hard to meet Voldemort's piercing stare, Harry looked to the side and tried to think of what to do. No adult had ever let him go on for this long without interruption or manhandling, and he felt quite breathless with it all, not knowing what to say or what to do. When Voldemort still hadn't said anything for a full minute, Harry firmly decided to go fetch his wand, deadly set on using all hexes and counter curses he knew in order to blast the door open, but before he could move, Voldemort finally decided to break the suffocating silence.

"I sometimes forget how very little you know about the world and its darker sides. With all of our similarities, it is ridiculously easy to look upon you as a younger version of myself." There was a short pause, during which Harry stared stubbornly to the side and clenched his teeth. "But although similar in nature, your childhood was, if you can believe it, worlds more sheltered than mine was. You might have grown up without anybody to trust and rely on ... But I grew up in an environment where nobody could trust anyone – sometimes, not even themselves ... Violence was part of normalcy, and death certainly wasn't an uncommon occurrence."

During the short pause that followed the ominous statement, Harry carefully turned his head to look at Voldemort, and saw that he had finally relaxed his frozen state, now sitting staring out the nearest window with a rather vacant expression.

"I believe I was six the first time I witnessed somebody's death. At that time, many lost women considered it a last kindness to give birth at the orphanage before they took their lives – believing that they in so doing made sure that their newborn babies would be properly taken care of. An absurd notion, of course, but what did they know? This particular woman was not having an easy time of it. Her screams woke me up, as I recall, and unlike the other children, I was not afraid to go downstairs and see what was going on. So I did ... and walked right into a blood bath. My caretakers were no doctors, far from it, so they couldn't help her. I remember standing still in the shadows, watching her get ripped open from within – listening to her screams and drowning in her smells. And I remember looking into her eyes as death finally took her ... Little did I know that it would not be the last time I'd witness something like that – far from it. The orphanage wasn't exactly located in the nicest parts of London ... and then, there was the war, a couple of years later. I might have been safe at Hogwarts throughout most of it, but I was still forced to go back each summer ... and it was a hell like you can't imagine."

With a suddenness that caught Harry unaware, Voldemort's red eyes turned in their sockets to look straight at him, and in them swirled pain and terror, reflecting all the things Harry felt when thinking back to Scabior's sudden demise.

"But it made me stronger. It opened my eyes to the world – the _true_ world – and all its darkness. It made me understand what death is, and it is important that you learn this too ... Death is failure; death is weakness; death is the result of poor planning and powerlessness. If you cannot keep from dying, you do not deserve to live."

"What do you mean?" Harry rasped out, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable.

"You need to open your eyes to the world and understand that _death happens_ ," Voldemort expanded with growing sternness. "We had this conversation when you first witnessed a death – short and uneventful as it was – and now we are having it again. When you are in the position I, and now you, are, you constantly have to make the choice which will benefit you the most and cost you the least. Sometimes, death is _necessary_."

Harry could hardly believe his own ears, and shot a dark glare at Voldemort. "How can death be _necessary_!? How can you even say that!?"

"You remember Mr Bryce, I trust, and the reasons why he had to die," Voldemort kept on in his deadly silent voice. "Mr Scabior was no different – the ritual was constructed that way for a reason. Nobody who will not bow to my authority, who does not agree with the Cause, or who has in his mind to betray me can pass through that fire – something which all who attempt it know beforehand. If they fail, it means that they are not worthy to reap the rewards of our struggle, and that they never can be trusted. If such people are allowed to leave the ranks with a slap on the wrist, the loyal followers will feel that their time and effort is worth less. It is a great honour to become a Death Eater – to become one of them is not something just anyone can attempt or succeed at – and it must stay that way. People must fear the repercussions of weakness and bad behaviour, or they will not respect their betters."

Harry felt raw, having listened to Voldemort's lengthy defence speech, and leaned heavily against the door, wishing desperately that the ever-present stench of charred flesh would go away. "What if I don't want to live in that kind of world," he whispered brokenly.

Slowly, Voldemort's steely expression softened as he kept staring at Harry's face. "It took me days to get the images of that woman out of my head. It was as if her image had been burnt onto the back of my eyelids. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see her; hear her screams; smell the smells ... I had not planned for you to witness that so soon. In fact, I purposefully took the time to speak to certain people beforehand, in order to ensure that they _would_ survive the ceremony …"

"I wish I'd never had to see that," Harry whispered and clenched his eyes shut against another onslaught of vivid images.

Voldemort studied him for a couple of moments before tilting his head the tiniest bit to the side. "I could remove the memory, to make you forget ... But, know that something similar to this _will_ happen again, and you will be forced to deal with it one time or another."

Harry considered it for one breathless moment, but then he shook his head, suddenly terrified of having his memories meddled with. "No, I don't ... I can't."

"Very well," Voldemort murmured quietly and righted his head. "Considering your claim that I lied to you ... I will have to disagree. I gave you an order, Harry, and I expected you to follow it; as we have established, I have every right to do that, as your guardian ... That I restrained you was, perhaps, not entirely fair of me; but I could not allow you to interrupt the ceremony."

After letting out a defeated sigh, Harry looked away from his master and padded back to the bed. Once he had climbed back under the covers, he realised how cold his feet had become and hurriedly clutched them in his hands to warm them up. "I think I'd like to be alone for a while, if that's all right, master," he then said, looking down at his knees to avoid Voldemort's penetrating gaze.

Another moment of complete silence followed, as if Voldemort debated on what to reply, but then there was a rustle as he arose from his seat and walked over to the door. Harry heard the door open, and closed his eyes, readying himself for the moment the memories would make themselves known again. "Do not dwell on it," Voldemort's voice broke in unexpectedly, making Harry snap his eyes open again and draw in a deep breath. "He knew what the risks were, and he knew that nobody would save him if he failed. You had no part in it ... You and all who attended were just as incapable of helping him as the people at the orphanage were of helping that woman ... Just accept that it happened ... and move on."

After Voldemort's rather stern words of encouragement, the door closed softly, and Harry was left on his own to lick his wounds.

* * *

After what seemed like an eternity in bed, having received both a tray of breakfast and lunch from Dobby, which he had barely touched, Harry finally felt strengthened enough to leave the safety of his bedroom and head downstairs.

Quiet as a shadow, Harry padded down the spiral staircase, through the door and across the room, slowly coming up to the six glass tanks. Inside, one by one, twenty-nine sets of yellow and one set of red eyes turned to look straight at him. With slow motions, he sat down on the floor, folding his legs into a cross-legged position, and studied the many baby basilisks with hollow eyes. They didn't appear to have grown anything at all since they were hatched, and with quite some bemusement, Harry wondered how Voldemort planned to make an army out of thirty tiny baby basilisks.

Staring at the little creatures, Harry's bruised inside started to warm up with affection, and the world seemed at once a little brighter. "Hello," he hissed quietly at them, watching with amused fondness how they slithered closer to the glass in order to get closer to him.

"Hello," they repeated, one by one, in a cacophony of little baby voices, and with a jolt, Harry realised that, of course, they had not learned how to speak yet.

"Harry," he tried, wondering if they would understand what he meant if he gestured at himself. After attempting it, he judged that, unsurprisingly, it had not worked. The snakes merely kept staring at him, repeating "Harry" over and over again. That was until one of them suddenly hissed out "Master", which the others copied moments after.

Before Harry could frown and ponder upon what they meant, Voldemort sat down at his left side, reclining casually with one arm slung over his bent up knee, as if he had been there all along even though he had just appeared out of nowhere.

They sat like that, just watching the snakes for a couple of tense minutes, before Harry decided he was ready to break the silence. "They know what to call you," he said in a rather raspy voice.

"I have been speaking to them in spare moments," Voldemort explained calmly, as though completely unbothered by the tense atmosphere. "By now, they have learnt to repeat what I say, as you might have noticed. They might learn how to speak fairly quickly on their own, of course, but only in basic snake-like terms. 'Food', 'danger', 'warmth' and the like comes easily to them ... but since they are magical creatures, their minds are capable of much, much more. A Parselmouth may teach them to become highly intellectual, with a lot of dedication."

"Is that what you plan to do with them?" Harry asked, subconsciously leaning a little closer to his master as he looked up at him.

"I plan to take on one or two of them," Voldemort disclosed in a relaxed manner. "Certainly the albino ... but there is another one which also shows promise."

"Which one?" Harry asked and felt a spark of interest alight in his mind. Carefully, he followed the line of Voldemort's pointed finger, seeing a rather small snake in the bottom right tank with so many markings on its back it nearly looked black. "Why that one?" he inquired as he took in the sight of the small, rather testy-looking snake.

Before he answered, the corner of Voldemort's lips twitched in amusement, and he reached out a hand to gently tuck a rebellious strand of Harry's hair behind his left ear. "It reminds me of you."

Feeling Voldemort's hand linger on his head, gently tugging at the unruly strands in an effort to neaten the hair, Harry got the sudden urge to break down into sobs again, but forcefully pushed it away before his treacherous eyes could moisten.

"Come," Voldemort said after a short moment of silence, during which much of the tense atmosphere had started to recreate the rift between them. "Most of the day has already passed, but there are still some hours left before dinner. I think we both need to get this entire ordeal out of our system – and I know just the cure."

After Harry had arisen, Voldemort held out his hand, and at once when Harry had taken it he Apparated. After a short moment of compression, a sensation which Harry found himself getting more and more accustomed to the more he experienced it, they appeared in the middle of the clearing from the night before.

Instantly tensing up, Harry looked around, feeling the tiniest bit of relief once he realised that all signs of the Ceremony were nowhere to be seen. Gone was the grand bonfire, the eerie moonlight, and, to Harry's utmost relief, the dead body.

"Why here?" he managed in a wheeze after the inspection, and watched as Voldemort stepped a good distance away from him before turning back around.

"It is a secluded space on even ground," Voldemort said indifferently and took out his wand with slow movements. "Besides – I believe it is wise to bring you back here before a fear of the place manifests into your mind. It doesn't do to fear a place only because of one's bad memories from one occurrence."

Letting out a deep breath, attempting to force away all the sharp jabs of memories that had started to assault his mind the moment they arrived at the glen, Harry nodded. "Yes, master."

"Good," Voldemort with a small smile. "Now, take out your wand. I trust you recall what I taught you about defence? What is the first thing you do when entering a new place?"

"Err," said Harry while freeing his wand from his deep robe pocket. "I think ... Was it 'look for entrances and exits'?"

"Indeed it was," Voldemort acknowledged with a short tilt of the head. "Where would one enter this glen?"

"There's the path we came from," Harry said slowly, and let his eyes roam around the open space for a moment. "There's also one behind you, and to the right ... But I guess one could come in just about anywhere ... even from above if they have brooms – or if they can fly, like you can."

"Nobody other than Lord Voldemort can, to my knowledge, do that," Voldemort cut in with a self-satisfied grin. "Yet," he added as though an afterthought, and at once, Harry felt a spark of excitement at the notion that he would get to learn how to fly one day. It hardly brightened his mood, but it proved somewhat distracting, at least.

"Since there are wards around us, I don't think anybody but you or the house-elves could Apparate here," Harry continued once he had gathered himself and received a confirmative nod from his master. "And I don't think anyone could use a Port-key to get here either."

"Precisely," Voldemort agreed. "Very good. Now, are you at all familiar with the art that is a wizard's duel?"

Trying very hard not to gape at him, Harry merely stared hard at his master for a few stunned seconds. "You want me to duel ... with _you_?" he managed at last, watching Voldemort's mouth split into a wide grin. "Are you _sure_ you don't want me dead after all?"

"Perfectly sure," Voldemort replied in a tone that was probably meant to be reassuring, but Harry saw a wicked glint in his eyes that he did not find reassuring in the least. "Now answer the question."

"... No, master," Harry admitted. "Well, I know it's like a proper duel with wands and all that. Malfoy challenged me to one once, but he never showed up for it ... Ron mentioned something about being my second ... you know, if I'd die during."

"How sentimental," Voldemort said quietly before speaking up. "There are a fair amount of duel styles to choose from, with their own sets of rules and regulations. The most common one is called the _Duelling Art's Noble Code of Excellence,_ or D.A.N.C.E for short. During the 16th and 17th centuries, when the noble pure-blood traditions were held in high esteem, it was not an uncommon occurrence for a wronged party to seek out his enemy at a formal dinner and ask 'shall we dance?', of course, meaning 'I challenge you to a duel, using the rules as described by the Duelling Art's Noble Code of Excellence'. In comparison, it is safe to say that the first option is far shorter and far more elegant – don't you agree?"

"I dunno ... Seems a bit stuck-up to me," Harry muttered with a rather sarcastic grimace, which widened into a twitchy smirk as Voldemort raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

"It does not do to lack finesse, Harry," he chided good-naturedly before sobering up. "The rules are as follows; before the duel can start, the opponents shall bow to one another and politely hold their attacks until a third party, the impartial judge, has counted to three. After that, they shall attempt to disarm each other – not kill, and preferably not injure. Although they are allowed to dodge by taking one step to either side, they shall remain at their original position. Physical attacks are completely prohibited, and usage of one's surroundings is strongly dissuaded ... all to maintain a chivalrous and relatively calm duelling climate. Can you guess what type of wizards makes use of these rules in battle?"

Harry blinked. "In battle? ... I guess it'd be someone who just wanted to capture, not harm ..."

"Fools," Voldemort provided with a twisted grin before suddenly firing off a red-beamed spell in Harry's direction.

Completely caught off guard, Harry barely had the time to register James's outcry of _"DODGE!"_ and jump to the side before the beam zoomed just past his left shoulder. Wide-eyed, Harry raised his wand in preparation, but Voldemort only retaliated by lowering his.

"There is a time and place for all things," he intoned as he calmly started to circle around Harry with his hands clasped behind his back. "A wizard's duel is appropriate to settle small, petty matters ... but in battle chivalry, honour and mercy have no place, unless you want to get killed ... Young wizards are usually taught how to duel following the D.A.N.C.E to the letter, but I find that to be faulty thinking; particularly in your situation. This is why we shall not use any rules."

After having walked a full circuit around him, Voldemort came to a stop in front of Harry, and gave an approving smile after a quick look down at his still raised wand. "You are not yet powerful enough to challenge anybody of note – but you are equipped with tools to help you wriggle out of dire situations. You have already learned the first lesson; 'where are your entrances and exits'. It is just as important to know where people might enter as it is to know where you yourself might leave. Imagine shortly that I am an enemy who wishes to kill you ... Not too far a stretch, I believe," he added with a smirk before starting to walk over to the other side of the glen. "You have already pointed out the exits available to you. Which one should you use?"

After a quick look around, Harry pointed at the path leading back to the fortress. "The way we came from," he decided with conviction.

"Very well. And the reasons?"

"Well, I should get back to the fortress," Harry hurriedly explained. "There are people there who could help ... and, unless it was really _you_ , I'd be safe in the tower – right? No-one can get past the entrance unless they know Parseltongue."

"That is correct," Voldemort replied with a rather amused expression. "And that is a good choice. However, I have equipped you with a second alternative, which would carry you far quicker to the tower. Can you guess what it is?"

After a short ponder, Harry shook his head in defeat. "No, master."

"A broomstick," Voldemort concluded, and at once, Harry felt a rush of realisation. _That's so simple_!

"But how would I get it?" he blurted the moment after. "It's in my room."

"It could be Summoned," Voldemort replied with ease and leaned back against the tree-trunk behind him. "Requiring performing a spell you do not know yet, and which has its strengths and weaknesses. Summoning a particular object does not allow for the transfer to be instantaneous, so it would take time for the broom to travel from your room and into your hand ... Another option, which I believe is the best one available to you, is to order one of the house-elves, who will have come to your aid, to fetch it for you. It will be quick and simple, and it will not involve spellwork you are yet unfamiliar with."

"All right," Harry said with a nod. "But if the house-elves can't help, I'll run the way we came."

"Precisely," Voldemort agreed and stepped away from the tree. "However quickly the retrieval of the broomstick might be, you would still be forced to evade my attacks. What would be the most efficient way?"

"Err, maybe ... a Shield Charm?"

After giving a short smile, Voldemort retrieved his wand before suddenly, in the blink of an eye, turning invisible. Harry flickered his gaze this way and that, getting an uncomfortable reminder of his terrifying run-in with Bellatrix Lestrange. The next moment, he felt a light shove at his back and was propelled forwards, stumbling ungracefully but thankfully not falling to the ground. Once he had regained his balance, he flipped around, and laid eyes on Voldemort's now visible, perfectly innocent expression.

"Powerful wizards can see through Disillusionment Charms and Glamours," the Dark Lord explained in a calm voice, as if nothing had happened. "But in this case, you might use your surroundings to your advantage. If the opponent cannot see you, he will have a harder time attacking you. So, I would suggest dodging and evading my spells until the house-elves appear. Then, you should order one of them to fetch your broom, before running into the shrubbery and Disillusion yourself. After that, it would only be a matter of moving around silently until the broomstick appeared, and then, fleeing."

"All right," said Harry, clutching his wand tightly in his fist. "That makes sense ... but what if it wasn't someone who had the powers of a Dark Lord ... What if someone my own age attacked me, or someone who's not so good with spells. What would I do then?"

"You would flee," Voldemort declared firmly. "You always flee. You are much too important to risk getting overpowered, captured or killed. Any way you can get back to safety, you will take."

"Yes, but what if I _can't_ , for some reason. What if I have to fight," Harry stressed.

After a short moment of contemplation, Voldemort's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "The simple answer is 'kill'. A swift Severing Charm to the neck or a Levitated rock to the head should do the trick."

Imaging doing those things, Harry started to feel dizzy, but determinedly kept his gaze steadily locked with Voldemort's. "And the complicated answer?" he asked in a rather raspy voice.

With suddenness akin to that of a striking snake, Voldemort flicked his wand, and immediately, Harry's entire body seized up before falling headlong to the ground. As he lay stiff on the slightly wet ground, he could do little more than listen as the sound of Voldemort's footsteps eerily came closer and closer, until the very gleeful-looking Dark Lord finally appeared in his line of sight.

"I would say that this is the most efficient way to incapacitate an opponent; you can neither fight nor run, and the curse won't be broken until I stop feeding mana into it. Either by falling unconscious, or –" Voldemort made a dismissive wave with his right hand, after which Harry felt his entire body relax. "– by consciously doing so. The Full Body-Bind Curse can, of course, be broken by others, which is why it would be best to disarm your opponents if there are more than one. Most wizards are completely useless without their wands, as you probably know."

"Right," Harry said and accepted the hand Voldemort held out in offering, allowing him to pull him off the ground and back to his feet. "So, escape, and if I can't, bind or disarm."

"Or stun," Voldemort provided as he gently brushed off some of the leaves and moss which clung to the back of Harry's robes. "If I remember correctly, you have not yet been taught the Stunning Spell."

"No," Harry confirmed with a shake of the head. "It makes people pass out?"

"It does," Voldemort replied and moved to stand to Harry's right side, holding his wand up. "It can also halt moving objects coming your way. The incantation is 'stupefy'."

"Stupefy," Harry repeated in a mutter as he, too, raised his wand.

After Voldemort had thoroughly gone through both the pronunciation and wand movement, and made sure that Harry could perform the spell perfectly, he walked across the glen again before turning to face his apprentice.

"You may attempt to stun me."

Harry nearly dropped his wand in surprise. "What?" he breathed before catching himself. "I'm sorry, master, but ... Doesn't the Apprenticeship Agreement say that I can't attack you?"

"'The Apprentice the Master faithfully shall serve, his secrets keep, and his commands obey to the best of his ability. He shall do no damage to the Master, directly or indirectly,'" Voldemort quoted in a dry tone. "I commanded you to attempt to stun me. Practicing a spell such as this can hardly be called 'do damage', and your intent will not be as such. Even if you do happen to actually hurt me, all that will happen is that you will be subjected to a short moment of discomfort, since I will forgive you instantly."

"Well, if you're sure," Harry replied with great trepidation and paused a moment to steel himself before letting out a deep breath and casting the spell. His first few attempts failed, but at his fifth try, a red beam tore out of the tip of his wand and zoomed straight for Voldemort. But he was ready; as soon as the spell had been fired off, he had put up a pale blue Shield Charm in front of him.

Harry knew what would happen next; the Stunning Spell would crash into the shield and vanish. Only, it didn't. Once it hit the pale blue surface of the shield, there was a bright golden light erupting from the collision, and as Harry stood watching with wide eyes, the golden light travelled all the way up the red beam of his spell, until it hit the tip of his wand. Looking up at Voldemort, Harry saw that their wands were connected by this odd golden thread, and what more was, Voldemort appeared completely caught off guard.

"What's going on?" Harry exclaimed in fright as the wand in his hand started to warm up and hum uncontrollably, and the sudden fear of it breaking under the strain crossed his mind.

With a deep frown, tugging and pulling at his wand as though in experimentation, Voldemort didn't reply. To Harry's great terror, he felt his feet lift off the ground as an array of golden light started to stream out of the beam, up and around them until they were enclosed in a domed web of sparkling magic. Over the sound of the crackling and fizzling magic connecting their wands, as though from the shimmering web itself, Harry heard the distant thrill of what sounded like the song of an exotic bird.

"Phoenix song," Harry heard Voldemort exclaim as a spark of realisation came alive in his red eyes. "It appears as though we have initiated a ritual."

"A what?" Harry shouted back and grabbed hold of his wand with both hands as the vibrations became too much to handle one-handed.

" _Priori Incantatem_ ," Voldemort yelled back. "Remember that you told me that we have brother wands? If I guess correctly, your core is Phoenix feather as well, right?"

"Right!" Harry hollered over the violent buzzing and crackling.

"Well, the wands are completely compatible, _brothers_ , and refuses to fight one another ... I never considered it, but that must be the reason ... We need to cooperate and pull away at the same time. Are you ready? On three!"

"All right!" Harry yelled back and readied himself.

"One, two, _three_ ," Voldemort intoned, and as one, they pulled away to the side, making the golden thread snap. At once, they both fell to the ground, the cage faded away and the Phoenix song died. In the aftermath of the strange phenomenon, Harry crawled off the ground, and wondered quite jealously how Voldemort had managed to land on his feet.

Brushing himself off, Harry walked slowly over to Voldemort's frozen form, wondering what was going through his mind. After a long moment of silence, Harry cleared his throat, making Voldemort snap out of his stunned state and look down at him. "So, I guess we don't fight, then?"

Slowly, a bemused smiled curled Voldemort's stiff lips. "No ... I am starting to think that we were never meant to."


	23. Chapter 23

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Three

* * *

"Ah, Quirinus," the Dark Lord exclaimed softly as Quirinus cracked the door to the First Floor Grand Sitting Room open, slipping inside with uncertain movements. "How good of you to join us. Come. Sit."

"Th-thank you, my Lord," Quirinus said softly and hurried forwards in the room towards the empty armchair which the Dark Lord had been gesturing at. Feeling all eyes on him, not only those of the other Death Eaters, but of the medieval witches and wizards inhabiting the heavy tapestries hanging off the windowless walls as well, he did his best to not let the silence deter him. Once having taken a seat in the dark brown chesterfield armchair, he let his gaze roam around the room, taking in the sparsely distributed men and women in the square space.

In the chesterfield sofa across from him sat Mr Malfoy, lazily swirling the burgundy contents of his tumbler around with a thoughtful expression; Mr Yaxley, whose stony face and ice cold blue eyes revealed nothing about the man's emotions; and Mr Travers, who held a fat cigar between two fingers, apparently completely indifferent to the smoky cloud he had produced over and around his own head.

In a love-seat to Quirinus' left sat Amycus and Alecto Carrow, fingering tumblers of their own, and in between the loveseat and the sofa, in identical chesterfield arm-chairs, sat the Dark Lord and his young apprentice.

Further back, leaning against the side of the beautifully carved out fireplace, stood Mrs Zabini, sporting a mysterious smile on her red-painted lips. To her right, sitting side by side on high stools by the dark wooden bar, was the Lestrange brothers, and a little to the side, a very sullen looking Sirius Black. In the opposite corner, by the chestnut grand piano, stood a third woman, whom Quirinus recognised from the papers as Miss Odelia Thorn, and leaning beside the door opposite of the one Quirinus had entered through, Mr Dolohov.

"As you all very well know," the Dark Lord started, keeping his voice soft and yet having no problems getting heard by each and every one of them, "we lost our troll troops to the Aurors two days back. With them, we lost a great deal of muscle ... but that shall not deter us. I know, my friends, that some of you have begun to doubt – that you all wonder what is to become of this cause we have spent so many years fighting for." The Dark Lord made a lingering pause, meeting eyes with all in his audience before continuing. "I shall quench that thirst for knowledge, right at this moment; we will not stop. We are yet strong, and we are growing stronger each and every day. Tell me, Lucius, how many recruits are on hold, waiting to be called in to do their duty?"

"257, and counting, my Lord," Mr Malfoy replied, looking up from his tumbler before taking a deep swig out of it.

"257, and counting," the Dark Lord repeated emphatically. "And tell me, how many Aurors are there to oppose us?"

"Exempting Mr Shacklebolt, whom has been suspended," Mr Malfoy replied readily, "a total of 89."

At this news, several of the Death Eaters cracked gleeful grins, and many of them visibly relaxed their tense stances.

"89," the Dark Lord mused aloud, with the barest hint of a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. "But let us not be unfair; we shall not forget the highly esteemed Order of the Phoenix. They, surely will pose a challenge ... with their additional number of 25."

Almost all Death Eaters openly laughed at this; Mr Travers nearly choking on the smoke of his cigar as he wheezed out a deep chuckle.

"My Lord," exclaimed Mr Black, who looked far from amused, with great uncertainty to the dying sound of laughter. "It might seem as though the Aurors are few in comparison ... but they are all well-trained. They are split into groups of three, who work together as a unit at all times. We might have a greater number – but how many of them are trained? How many have even fought before?"

"You are overstepping your boundaries, Black," Rodolphus Lestrange growled under his breath, aiming a deeply offended side-ways look at the other man. "The Dark Lord shall be addressed with respect – particularly by the likes of you."

Before Mr Black could open his mouth to retaliate, the Dark Lord spoke up. "That is quite all right, Rodolphus. This isn't supposed to be a lecture, but a meeting, after all. In fact, I encourage all of you to look critically upon the situation and voice your opinions." After a short look around, Quirinus realised that this must be something the old Death Eaters were not at all accustomed to – they all looked rather flabbergasted, as though they had expected the Dark Lord to chew Black's head off for speaking openly. "It is true that the Aurors are indeed well-trained and talented," the Dark Lord continued calmly, not paying his confounded followers any heed. "I believe you, Sirius, and even you Odelia, are prime examples of that ... Talent sorely wasted, hidden away at Azkaban, but still. I quite agree that the Aurors shall not be underestimated. Which is why it is high time for us to mobilize our troops and start training as well."

During the short pause that followed the Dark Lord's statement, all of the room's inhabitants sunk down into thoughtful silence, waiting patiently for their Lord to expand – with the exception of Amycus Carrow, who sported a wicked lopsided leer at the prospect of preparing for war. Feeling rather uncomfortable with the man's twisted excitement, Quirinus looked decidedly away and instead fixed his eyes on the Dark Lord's neutral face.

"This is the reason you all have been called here today," the Dark Lord revealed softly after having crossed one leg over the other, sinking into a rather comfortable-looking position in his armchair. "As some of my most talented, most intelligent and most loyal followers, you are the prime candidates of becoming lieutenants ... After all, not one of those who have previously held the position, with the exception of Bellatrix Lestrange, are left alive. So we will have to start anew."

"I beg your pardon, my Lord," Rodolphus Lestrange cut in. "If a am allowed to voice my opinion ... I find myself concerned at this news, looking at those assembled here ... It seems to me quite a shock that, for instance, Sirius Black – who was once one of the prime fighters for the Light side, and who has killed countless of our kind – finds himself among our ilk."

"I quite agree," Mr Yaxley said stiffly, sending a dark glower over his shoulder at Black's completely indifferent form. "He might have succeeded in becoming one of us ... and yet, my Lord, I cannot abhor the mere thought of allowing him to _lead_ where he should follow."

"That is ... understandable," the Dark Lord voiced with a small smile, slowly drumming the tips of his fingers loosely against each other. "And I would quite agree, if it weren't for the fact that Sirius has, by far, most reason out of all of you to fight the Ministry and, indeed, the Order of the Phoenix. He has earned Lord Voldemort's trust, cemented by the fact that he has indeed become one of you, and survived ... As for whether he is fit to lead parts of my army or not, I hold no doubt. I think that many of you have witnessed, first hand, what skill he possesses on the battlefield ... That is not to say that he is the only candidate – as I previously stated, each and every one of you have been handpicked by me personally because I believe that you, above all others, can do the job."

Hearing it a second time, after having thought he misheard the first, Quirinus felt his heart nearly come to a stop in his chest, and quite against his will, he heard himself breath out a protest. "B-b-but you cannot be s-serious, my Lord. I could never ..." As all eyes in the room turned back to him, Quirinus' tongue tied itself into a knot, and he found himself completely unable to continue.

"Oh but you can, Quirinus," the Dark Lord replied mercilessly, sporting a stern expression of utmost confidence. "You, unlike all others in here, have already lead part of my army, and fought your way out of a nearly impossibly dire situation. Indeed, if not for your guidance, I believe it unavoidable that all trolls had been killed in that cave. You, unlike the others, have lead part of my army against the Aurors and survived." To Quirinus' horror, several of the Death Eaters now regarded him with unveiled respect. "And let us not forget that it was you who singlehandedly aided your Lord back to health – who remained loyal despite the daily task of facing your former friends; who drank Unicorn Blood for him; who retrieved the Philosopher's Stone for him; and who handed over Harry Potter to him. As I have previously explained, you are currently, by far, the most loyal and diligent out of all the Death Eaters in my ranks."

Flushing with embarrassment, Quirinus looked stubbornly down at his lap and took to fiddling with the end piece of his turban, which hung down past his shoulder and down to his belt. Quite against his will, a deep sense of pride and accomplishment surged through him, and he couldn't help giving a shivering smile. "Thank you, my Lord," he whispered and felt, with relief, how all eyes turned off his person and back to the Dark Lord.

"I require five Lieutenants, to lead five separate parts of my army," the Dark Lord explained, and finding it safe to look up, Quirinus dropped the hem of his turban and did so. "One to lead the forward troops in the midst of battle; one to lead the back troops who attack at a distance; one to lead the warding troops; one to lead the dispellers; and one to lead the field healers."

"How about a Commander, my Lord?" Mr Malfoy requested quietly with a sideways glance at the Dark Lord, who looked back at him with an unreadable expression.

"The position will remain open," he revealed after a short pause, "until we know for certain that Bellatrix will not recover."

"She has been doing better lately, my Lord," Rodolphus Lestrange informed at once, to which statement Mr Black made an ugly grimace.

"But not well enough," the Dark Lord concluded with finality. With measured movements, he arose from his seat and came to stand in the middle of the room, immediately demanding everybody's rapt attention. "Giselle," he intoned after turning to look straight at Mrs Zabini, who immediately straightened from her reclining position. "You shall be the leader of the field healers."

With a pleased smirk, Mrs Zabini made a deep curtsey at the Dark Lord. "It will be my pleasure, my Lord."

"Good," the Dark Lord replied with an answering smirk. "As for the dispellers, it shall be your task, Rabastan, to lead them."

After sliding off his stool, the younger of the Lestrange brothers bent down into a deep curtsey, with a shark-like grin. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you!"

"And you, Alecto, shall be the leader of the warding troops," the Dark Lord continued, and watched with unveiled pleasure as the stocky Mrs Carrow arose before curtseying deeply right in front of him.

"Certainly, my Lord. I will not disappoint."

"And then, for the back troops," the Dark Lord continued after Mrs Carrow had retaken her seat, "it shall be you, Quirinus."

As the ruby red eyes turned to pierce him, Quirinus felt all blood leave his face and rush down to his heart, which seemed to have a mind to beat a hole straight through his chest. But mixed with the onslaught of panic was that same sense of foreign pride – of accomplishment and desire to prove himself – to become someone of import. _You could be great you know_ , whispered the memory of his first encounter with the Dark Lord down in Albania from the back of his mind. _I can see it – the potential to do great deeds, to expand your knowledge and make yourself renowned. I could help you ... If you just help me first, I could help you rise above and beyond what you've ever dreamed._

Looking into the Dark Lord's eyes now, being presented with the opportunity on a silver platter, Quirinus felt his body arise of its own volition and bend down into a deep curtsey. Through the rushing haze in his mind, he heard himself stutter out a promise of utmost effort, before he found himself sitting in the armchair again, feeling quite faint.

On the Dark Lord's lips played a pleased smile, and his eyes glimmered with triumph. "You have earned it, my friend. And finally," he exclaimed, whipping around to face the bar where the Lestrange brothers and Mr Black stood, alternating between sending each other glares and keeping their gazes plastered onto the Dark Lord's face. "The leader of the forward troops shall be you," his head moved the tiniest bit to the left, "Rodolphus."

With a radiant and malicious grin, Rodolphus Lestrange fell down into a ridiculously low curtsey and bent his head in respect. "Of course, my Lord. I am your most humble servant."

"Very well," the Dark Lord replied with a stiff smile as he lifted his gaze to let it roam across the room once more. "With the consent of all five candidates, I present to you all Lieutenants Lestrange, Quirrell, Carrow, Lestrange, and Zabini." After a short bout of applause, the Dark Lord lifted his hands to beg silence. "With that, our meeting is concluded. I ask all Lieutenants to remain, and to all others, I say farewell. But rest assured that we will all see each other again very soon."

Trying hard to still his inner turmoil of conflicting emotions, Quirinus watched the Dark Lord retake his seat while the departing Death Eaters one by one arose and bade farewell to him. Lastly, after all the newly assigned Lieutenants had claimed seats in the sofa group, the Dark Lord whispered something to his young apprentice, who nodded shortly before arising and slipping out the door after Mr Black, just before it fell closed behind him.

* * *

Before he could turn and head back to the tower, as instructed by his master, Harry felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder from behind. "You all right there, Harry?"

Slowly, he turned his head to look up at his godfather, who looked rather drawn in close proximity, as though he had been losing sleep. "Sure," he replied quietly and carefully shrugged the weight off himself while taking a step back and turning to face Sirius fully. "Why?"

"Well," Sirius breathed out and watched him with deeply saddened eyes, "after last night, I'd thought you'd be ... well, terrified."

Sharp stabs of memories flooded into his mind – stinging smells and blood-chilling screams of terror – but before they could take root, Harry took a deep breath and envisioned Voldemort's soothing hisses. _Keep taking calm breaths ... inhale ... exhale ... inhale ... exhale ... keep your mind clear._

"I'm fine," he said stiffly and opened his eyes. "Thanks for asking. How about you?"

"Never mind about me," Sirius replied impatiently and took a step forward. "Harry, you're just a kid –"

"I'm not," Harry refused and took an answering step back. "Look, you don't have to worry about it – it's fine." Images of Sirius's concerned face closing in on him through the flames, the man kneeling to his level and staring deep into his soul assaulted his mind, and the smell of charred flesh became nauseating.

"Not a chance," Sirius refused and took three resolute steps forwards before claiming both Harry's shoulders in a firm hold. "There's no way you could be fine –"

"Get off me!" Harry exclaimed forcefully and tore out of the restraining grip, glaring up at his godfather as he hastily backed up to a safe distance. "I said I'm fine!" he insisted through the ear-splitting screams echoing in his mind.

"And I don't believe you," Sirius countered sharply. "Why won't you let me help you? Why are you so afraid of me? What have I done to you that's so horrible you won't even let me touch you?"

"I don't know you," Harry defended, narrowing his eyes against the accusation.

"I'm your godfather," Sirius returned heatedly. "You don't have to know me to trust me, Harry. I was your father's best friend!"

"I don't know him either," Harry replied hoarsely, trying desperately to calm himself down in order to quench the insistent fires closing in on him.

"But you know _him_ , is that it?" Sirius growled furiously, throwing a hand out in a gesture to the room they had just left. "How is that even possible? Do you even know who he is? What he's done?"

"Of course I know! I'm not stupid!"

"Then why?" Sirius demanded, pushing forwards as Harry slowly backed away. " _Why_ would you trust him when you can't trust me? You say you don't know me, but you've only known him for two weeks."

 _Two weeks_ , rang through Harry's mind, startling him a little as for him, it had seemed so much longer. "I ... I don't know," he replied uncertainly. "I just do ..."

"You just do?" Sirius repeated incomprehensively, and at the almost mocking tone, Harry felt a fresh surge of anger rush through him.

"I just do, all right!" he exploded. "He takes care of me, like no-one ever has!"

"Like your parents would have if he hadn't _killed them_ ," Sirius returned pointedly.

"Shut up!" Harry bellowed, and with the force of his anger, all flames on the candles along the cold stone corridor flickered and died, leaving the both of them in complete darkness. Refusing to stick around to get more verbal abuse, Harry turned and ran. Through the corridors, down and up the staircases, until he reached the West Tower Office, where he sank down behind Voldemort's desk, panting, forcing himself not to break down as he hid from the world.

* * *

It was with a sigh of contentment after a job well done that Voldemort Apparated to his office. Upon his arrival, he was faced with the very uncommon image of his young apprentice, sitting straight-backed in his master's chair, staring blankly ahead with a snake coiling lazily around his shoulders. After the initial stab of fury, Voldemort relaxed, realising that it was Shamira and not a basilisk the boy was wearing like a noose.

Finding the room depressingly dark, Voldemort gestured at the fireplace, which's innards instantly was set aflame, crackling merrily as he approached the desk. "It's late," he observed quietly and leaned casually against the edge of the heavy wooden tabletop, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you'd be sleeping by now."

Harry didn't reply at first, but merely kept staring blindly ahead, the only indication of his awareness his right hand which reached up to his right shoulder to slowly caress Shamira's black tail. Then, sluggishly, his eyes cleared somewhat and rose to meet his. "I'm bad, aren't I?"

The quietly whispered question slipped reluctantly past Harry's lips, as though of its own volition, and it was immediately followed by a shivering intake of breath. "Bad in what sense?" Voldemort replied softly, taking care to keep all judgement out of his voice.

As though his gaze was too unnerving to meet, Harry's eyes flicked to the side, resting instead on something just past his shoulder. "You're bad – you're doing bad things ... if I'm your apprentice ... doesn't that make me bad too?"

"You think I'm bad?" Voldemort asked in return, struggling to keep the amusement out of his voice.

His control paid off as Harry found enough courage to meet his eyes again. "Well, you're not _good_ , are you? You're going to start a war – kill people – hurt them."

"What inspired this?" Voldemort couldn't help frowning, although he made sure not to glare. "I believed we had come to an understanding."

"I don't know," Harry muttered and lowered his gaze to his hands, resting in his lap. "It's just ..." As Harry sat struggling for words, Voldemort put a lid on his impatience and conjured a wing-backed chair, which he sank down into completely soundlessly.

"Do you feel as though you are being bad for cooperating with me?" he guessed when Harry hadn't spoken for a full minute, and at once, the boy's eyes snapped back to him.

"I don't know," Harry whispered brokenly. "I don't feel bad about it – not really. I just ... I guess I trust you, somehow ... but people keep nagging me about it and I just don't know what to say."

"You don't have to justify yourself to others," Voldemort replied evenly. "You're not obliged to explain yourself to anyone."

"I guess," Harry allowed and bit the side of his lip in thought. "But there's some part of me that thinks it's weird ... How can I trust you this much, like you even, after all that's happened. After just two weeks?"

Despite himself, Voldemort couldn't help allowing his lips to twitch into a crooked smile. "You mean; how can you trust and like your magical guardian, blood relative, master and the protector of your soul?"

Harry looked comically stunned for a moment, before his eyes cleared significantly. "Are you saying it's magic?"

"I'm saying," Voldemort replied pointedly, with the barest hint of mockery, "that there are many magical bonds tying the two of us together – even our wands are brothers. You probably would have learned to trust me in time without this to amplify our kinship, but as it is, there is powerful magic tying us together, yes."

Hearing that, Harry visibly sagged with relief and looked at once very tired. "So that's why," he breathed out to himself with such relish Voldemort actually found himself feeling rather insulted.

"What is so horrible about trusting and liking me?" he couldn't help but ask in a deceptively calm voice.

For a moment, Harry just blinked back at him, but then, a flush coloured his cheeks and his eyes lowered in shame. "I'm sorry, master ... I didn't mean it like that, it's just ... Well, you're Lord Voldemort."

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Voldemort pressed. "Let me remind you that my aim is not to wreck havoc and destroy the wizarding world, but to save it – to rebuild and create a world where wizard can do magic freely and openly, without restraint and fear of an overbearing government."

"I know," Harry insisted hurriedly, being all remorse. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

Pausing a moment to evaluate whether he should push the issue or not, Voldemort watched silently as Harry tentatively arose from his seat, walked up to the side of his armchair and carefully placed his hand onto his master's right forearm. "Don't be mad," he whispered softly, "we're not meant to fight, you said."

 _How utterly manipulative_ , Voldemort thought with relish, studying Harry's remorseful expression with held back glee, thinking that it was moments like this which allowed him to think of the boy as a sort of mirror version of himself that age.

Smirking, he lifted his right hand and gave Harry's left cheek a soft caress before arising from his seat and flicking his wand to vanish it. "Apology accepted," he declared and made his way towards the staircase leading to his quarters. "I shall retire, and I suggest you do so too. It is nearly midnight."

"I will. Good night, master," Harry called out after him as he went, and softly, with a sting of affection Voldemort replied. "Good night, Harry."

* * *

The clock struck two and without delay, Severus turned on the spot and Apparated. With a dull _crack_ , he appeared at the pier, leading up to Ravenclaw Fortress, towering ominously into the rather misty night sky, where the moon shone down through a thin cover of clouds. Steeling himself one last time, Severus drew in a deep breath, clutched the vial more tightly in his fist as to make sure it was really there, and then called out "Dobby!"

The seconds he had to wait felt like hours, and when the elf suddenly popped into existence at his feet, Severus very nearly jumped.

"Mr Snape, sir!"

Making at once a shushing gesture, Severus wrapped his black cloak tighter around himself and shot a pointed look down at the trembling little elf. "It is time," he declared. "Fetch Harry, now."

* * *

Feeling as though he had just put his head onto the pillow, Harry was startled awake by someone insistently shaking his upturned right shoulder, whispering for him to wake up.

"What is it?" Harry mumbled into his pillow, feeling sick at the thought of leaving his warm soft bed for even a moment.

"Mr Harry Potter needs to get up, right now!" the squeaky voice insisted and shook his shoulder even harder. "We needs to hurry!"

"All right, fine," Harry snapped short-temperedly, and blindly crawled out from under his covers, instantly starting to shiver from the contrasting chilliness of the room. "This bloody better be worth it," he murmured to himself as he stalked over to the wardrobe and started to get dressed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Four

* * *

A chilly breeze swept over the blank surface of the water and up his tense body, making his long hair and robes dance around in gentle waves. The night was ominously quiet, Severus thought to himself as he stared unblinkingly at the silhouette of the fortress, counting the seconds quietly to himself since after Dobby had left. Clutching the vial of black liquid in his left hand, and his wand in his right, he kept careful watch of any movements in the vegetation ahead – but as of yet, he had only seen, and heard, ravens.

As the seconds ticked by, and he reached 400, a sense of doubt started seeping in unwelcome in his mind – making him tense up further and flicker his gaze about. If it hadn't been for the sudden movement of a sleek grass snake in the water close to shore, he might have turned back and aborted the mission, but after that moment of hesitation, there was a dull _pop_ further down the pier and two rather short figures appeared. One was the elf, rather tall for his ilk, and Harry Potter, looking half-asleep and fairly irritated.

When the boy didn't move, Severus curled his lip. "Hurry up," he hissed through clenched teeth, being careful to stay put outside the wards as he gestured with his head for Potter to approach. In response, the boy blinked dumbly, but then his eyes seemed to clear and he sharply turned his head around to send a quick look over his shoulder and then back to Severus.

"What's going on?" he asked intelligently as he slowly started to walk forwards, edging closer and closer upon the wet rocks with the skittish elf following close behind.

"Quickly, Potter," Severus demanded stiffly, keeping his eyes locked on the still dark windows of the fortress. "We are leaving."

When there was no immediate answer, he looked back at the boy and saw that he had stopped in his tracks, a good distance from the edge of the wards, and seemed to be of a mind to turn back.

"No, Potter," Severus said hurriedly and levelled his wand right in between the boy's wide eyes. "Don't even think about it. I have sacrificed too much."

In response, the boy dug his own wand out of his robe pocket and aimed it at him. Severus grinded his teeth against the immediate assault of fury. "I won't leave!" Keeping his wand straight, the boy started inching slowly backwards, groping with a hand behind his own back. "Dobby, take me back to the tower. Hurry!"

"No, Harry Potter," the elf answered in a sorrowful squeak, shaking his head back and forth in a violent motion which made his huge ears flap. "Dobby told Harry Potter that Dobby would find a way to help. Master Severus Snape will take Harry Potter somewhere safe, so Harry Potter must go. Quickly, before master comes!"

"No, Dobby I can't," Potter said in a harsh whisper, trying to bypass the elf but failing as Dobby stood his ground, throwing up a Shield Charm in front of him, both his hands raised.

"Harry Potter must!" The elf looked at the boy with deepest devastation. "Dobby has sacrificed too much too, just like Master Snape."

"Pay attention, Potter," Severus said in a clear voice, lowering his wand. "There's no time for any of your foolish stunts. Come here or I will be forced to come and get you."

"But I can't leave!" Potter replied angrily, taking an incensed step forward, throwing his hands out to his sides. "There are wards keeping me here – a contract, making me stay."

"Just do as I say," Severus hissed, barely keeping from raising his voice. "When I say I will get you out it means I. Will. Get. You. Out."

"But I can't!" Potter insisted, eyes wide with desperation. "You don't understand! It's not safe! You can't take me back – they'll kill me! They'll kill me when they find out."

"Potter, calm down," Severus demanded harshly before clenching his teeth, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to soften. "Everything is going to be ... all right," he got out in a very stiff but soft voice, which miraculously made the boy freeze up at stare at him in utter silence. Slowly, Severus pocketed his wand, keeping his eyes locked with Potter's. "I understand the danger of your situation ... but, you must understand that you are no safer here than you would be with the Order ... I am ... begging you, Potter." The words fell off his tongue, like lemon juice, making his face twist up into an ugly grimace. Potter, for his part, looked utterly gobsmacked. "You have to trust me ... I am taking you away, from here, from everything – somewhere safe where they cannot find you, either of them. But we must leave. _Now_!"

Potter blinked owlishly a couple of times, and then shook his head. "Wh-what do you mean? Where?"

"Now Potter," Severus insisted through clenched teeth, and at once hearing the irritation in his voice, Potter shifted into a defensive stance, straightening his wand-arm into an offensive position.

"No," he whispered, breathing harshly. "No!"

Feeling a vague sense of defeat, but no sense of surprise, Severus took out his wand again and quickly stepped into the wards. Aware that his entrance no doubt had set of a myriad of alarms and defence mechanisms, he rushed forwards, dead set on forcing the potion down Potter's throat and then grab him.

But he only managed three steps before a spell – far too advanced for the boy to manage – flew at him at such a speed he barely got his shield up in time.

As he stumbled backwards, another curse came zooming at him, and it passed through where the first one had stopped. Once it had hit its mark, Severus found his feet rooted to the ground – heavy like lead.

Staring wide-eyed at Potter, watching his childishly pink mouth twist into a diabolical smirk and his eyes flash red, Severus' mind made a violent flip and swiftly jumped from _Possible Scenario 22_ to _Possible Scenario 74e_ – Polyjuice Potion, user, the Dark Lord himself.

* * *

Travelling down the spiral staircases towards the ground floor, Harry shivered and tugged the corners of his black wool cloak tighter around himself, yawning until he felt his eyes water. Before him, barely visible in the dim light of the sparsely placed candles along the stone walls, was Bleak, hurrying down the steps like a scalded dog. She reached the bottom of the stairs much quicker than he, and stood by the drapery, nervously weighing back and forth from one foot to the other, blinking up at him with her intense blue eyes. "Please Mr Harry Potter, sir," she urged in a squeaky whisper, "we needs to hurry."

"What does he want anyway? Did he say?" Harry said with another huge yawn.

"Bleak is only doing as Master asks," the elf replied with conviction.

"It better not be another bloody ritual," Harry muttered as he picked up the pace down the last set of stairs. " _Let me out_." As soon as the heavy curtains started to part, Bleak sprung forwards through the opening and out of the nook. With a sigh, Harry willed the tiredness away and set after her in a light jog.

* * *

Snape's eyes were filled with fear – delicious, quivering heartbeats visible in the dark depths of his dilated pupils, surrounded by a full circle of white. Voldemort allowed himself to savour the moment, drawing in a deep breath through his nose, before widening his smirk into a grin. Quietly ordering the elf to leave with a quick glance over his shoulder, Voldemort took a lazy step forwards as there was a dull _pop_ behind him.

"Come to abduct my apprentice, Severus?" he said delicately and tilted his head the tiniest bit to the side. "How rude."

A wall of stoicism layered itself over Snape's previously vulnerable expression, and a dark sneer soon plastered itself on top of it – but it was too late. Voldemort had already seen what he came for, and that was the foundation of which all Snape's shields were stacked upon.

Keeping his jaw tightly clenched shut, Snape stood in a distinctly defensive position, holding his wand up high. Voldemort took in the sight with another bout of relish, feeling increasingly excited as the seconds ticked by. Then, he struck.

He lashed out with a series of swift Cruciatus Curses, the first two which zoomed past Snape's shoulder as he dismantled the curse on his feet and swiftly dropped to the ground before making a roll to the right. The third curse hit him square in the stomach, making him let out an agonised growl as he made flinging motions with his wand in Voldemort's direction.

As a result, a series of rocks flew off the ground and headed straight for his face, but with a quick sweep of his wand, a large wave broke off the dark waters around them, taking the rocks with it as it rushed clean across the pier. As a result, the Cruciatus Curse was broken, and once the wave had passed, Snape was up on his feet again, running at breakneck speed towards the edge of the wards.

Sneering at the foolishness of turning one's back to the Dark Lord, Voldemort sent a Bone-Breaking Curse at his opponent, who fell face first to the ground with a resounding _crunch_ as soon as it hit him in the right leg.

"Leaving so soon?" Voldemort mocked with as deadly a tone as he could manage with Harry's distinctly childish voice. He stepped closer, watching with glee as Snape remained on his stomach, fighting furiously with his cloak, which had come up around his head and arms, efficiently trapping him in its coils. "But you only just arrived, and I have so much to tell you," he kept on, flicking his wand to the side, efficiently making his trapped opponent flip to the side and onto his back, gasping for air.

As his hands came into view, there was a glimmer as the moonlight hit a sleek surface, and in the next moment, Snape had a vial at his lips and was gulping down its contents. The next moment, there was a loud _snap_ as the broken leg jumped back into place and mended, but Snape didn't wait for it to finish before he had his wand aimed again at his enemy, sending a purple-beamed spell straight at him.

Voldemort instantly recognised the wand movement and threw up the appropriate shield, making the spell bounce back at its caster before following it up with a volley of Disarming Spells. Snape managed in the last moment to block his own spell by redirecting it to the side, but the Disarming Spells all hit their mark, ripping his wand out of his hand with cruel finality.

Voldemort caught it self-assuredly with his right hand before pocketing it, keeping his own wand carefully trained on Snape's frozen form as he, once more, stepped closer. "Come now, Professor," he said with a dark leer, "the lesson's over. It's time for detention."

"You should have let me take him," Snape wheezed with a scorching glare. "You know he's not safe here, or the Unbreakable Vow wouldn't have urged me into action."

In response, Voldemort tut-tutted chidingly with a condescending shake of the head. "Oh Severus," he said softly, "you should know better than attempting to outwit me in the academic field. Foolish man – the terms of the vow were formulated verbally by Albus Dumbledore. It is entirely up to his beliefs and convictions what qualifies as mortal danger to Harry. But you already know that, no doubt, so I wonder; why is it that you would even attempt to fool me, and so bluntly?"

"The fact remains," Snape said, completely bypassing the posed question, "that the vow is a leash around my neck which will strange me if I do not comply. As long as the boy is with you, or with the Order, I cannot stop, and you know it. You'd better just kill me now and be done with it."

With a thoughtful hum, Voldemort pretended to consider it. "You are awfully ready to die of late, my old friend – this is the second time you have offered me your life on a silver platter. Don't tell me you've gone suicidal in my absence?"

"What does it matter?" Snape hissed acidly up at him, baring his teeth in utmost hatred. "Now's your chance. You orchestrated this from the start, didn't you, so that you could finally see where my true loyalties lie. Well, you've got what you wanted, so be done with it."

Voldemort merely smiled and started to walk in a slow circuit around his fallen enemy. "Do you not find it amusing, Severus, how the vow compels you to remove Harry, not only from my presence, but from Dumbledore's as well? That implies that he knows, subconsciously or not, that he is going to have to kill Harry to get to me." There was no response, as Snape merely kept glaring up at him as he paced, slowly, round and round. "But yes, you have indeed shown your true colours, my old _friend_ ... I have to admit, it was not what I was expecting. You seemed far too rooted in Dumbledore's circle to attempt to double-cross us both – but that doesn't matter. Not now. It is far too late." Voldemort pulled up all his ruthlessness to the surface and gave a purely evil grin. "You will tell me everything."

Taking his time drinking in the defeated and terrified expression on Snape's face, Voldemort moved softly back to his original position and made a commanding gesture with his wand. " _Accio Potion Vials!_ "

With a merry clatter, a series of slim, finger-sized vials flew from Snape's sleeves and over to his right hand. "Quite the collection," he murmured with a twisted smirk Snape's way, before scanning through the contents of his open palm. What he saw made him freeze up, the smirk twisting into an incensed grimace. _He had the means of bypassing the wards and escape, being at this close proximity to the edge, had he merely taken a single sip of this._ With sudden clarity, it all came together. _He's stalling me._

He looked up, immediately shooting off a Cruciatus Curse, but Snape flung himself to the side and back up on his feet. The curse slammed useless to the ground as Snape pulled a second wand out of his black robes and threw himself back into the duel.

* * *

Taking in the unfamiliar scenery, having travelled below the Potions Chamber down a slim spiral staircase cast entirely in dark stone, he had followed Bleak past dark corridors containing a healthy mix of storage rooms and dungeons. It was eerily quiet, and it grew colder and colder the deeper they got. After a while, the deep corridors ceased to exist, and all he could see was just more steps leading downwards. The continuous motion had started to make him dizzy, and just as he was about to give in to temptation and start badgering Bleak with questions again, his feet his solid ground. Carefully he made his way forward in the complete darkness of his cold surroundings.

"Bleak?" he hissed out quietly, suddenly very ill at ease. "Bleak, where are you?"

" _Be careful_ ," James urged softly. " _Something seems off_."

" _Lumos!_ " Harry cast, and blinked as the sudden light stung his eyes. Once he had become accustomed to the light, he lifted his wand a little higher, and realised with a start that he had ended up in what had to be the caves beneath the fortress. He warily looked around, taking in the wet stone walls and finding, with quite some relief that no deadly monster appeared to be lurking in there after all.

"Bleak?" he called out again, a little more loudly this time, taking a few tentative steps forward. "Master?"

"Over here, Mr Harry Potter, sir!" the little elf's voice called out from a passage to his right. "Hurry now – master mustn't be kept waiting."

Hesitantly, Harry ventured into the slim corridor, soon feeling a weak gust of wind hit his face as the soft light of the moon set the wet stone floor aglow. The further he went the wider and lighter the cave became, and soon, an opening could be seen. " _Nox!_ " he muttered and lowered his wand once he caught sight of Bleak, standing waiting for him next to Healer Abbott.

"What's going on?" Harry inquired confusedly once he's reached the old man. "Where's Master? Bleak said he'd be here."

Frowning, Harry took in Healer Abbott's appearance, noting with quite some confusion that he stood completely straight-backed with neither walking stick nor glasses in sight. "The elf meant me, Mr Potter," the old man said in an uncommonly clear and strong voice which was completely at odds with his usual soft and rather quivering one. "As Head Healer, the Dark Lord bestowed me with some rather convenient benefits. A house-elf was one of them." Before Harry could blink, Healer Abbott made a sharp jab with his wand in Bleak's direction, and at once, she sank to the ground, unconscious. "That is not to say it is completely loyal to me ... Quickly now; this way, Mr Potter."

With a beckoning gesture, the old healer set off at a slow pace, looking this way and that, headed towards the moonlit shoreline, where Harry saw a weathered rowing boat, moored to one of the bigger seaweed covered boulders.

 _What's he doing?_ Harry thought frantically, taking a weary step back. _Is this a test?_

" _Call for Dobby!_ " James dictated sternly, leaving no doubt about what he thought Healer Abbott's intentions to be.

Heart thundering in his ears, keeping his eyes plastered onto his abductor's turned back, Harry hissed out the elf's name from the corner of his mouth. Within a mere second, Dobby appeared with a dull _pop_ , which instantly made Healer Abbott flip around with a wide-eyed expression.

"Dobby, go get my broom. _Now_!" Harry commanded as he hurriedly raised his wand to the top of his head and murmured " _Occulto Ex Visum!_ " To the sound of Dobby's Disapparition, the feeling of sludge dripping down his body made itself known, and thus feeling more than seeing that he had gone invisible, Harry darted into the darkness behind him.

" _Don't turn your back on him!"_ James called out, but too late. Harry merely made it five steps before a strong sense of elation overcame him, making him stop and draw in a deep breath.

It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating sensation as every thought and worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of a nagging voice in the back of his mind which seemed utterly unimportant.

"Come here," a soft voice gently called, and with a sense of floating on clouds, Harry turned and walked into the light, smiling as the happiness lazily increased.

* * *

The dark water on each sides of the pier rushed up at him, but effortlessly, Voldemort rose up into the air and twirled his wand in complex patterns, shooting off one; two; three yellow-beamed Phantom Pain Curses and one Stomach Twisting Hex of an identical colour in quick succession. A lesser man would have mistaken it, and thus failed to sidestep it in favour of shielding against it – but Snape did, infuriatingly. Voldemort clenched his teeth against the strong sense of urgency; unless he focused this would all blow up in his face.

With deadly intent, he switched into a defensive technique, battling off Snape's onslaught with his left hand while raising his right to the neckline of his robes. With quick motions, he tore out the thin silver chain he kept hidden there, spelled so that only the wearer could see and feel it, and clutched the snake and skull ornament tightly in his fist.

 _Quirinus ... Lucius ... Black_ , he managed before Snape's attacks forced him to let go of the jewellery and switch back to the offensive.

Snape's spells had grown aggressive now, and some of them Voldemort found, to his surprise, had a combination of colour and wand movement unknown to him. With a deadly grin, finding some enjoyment in the fight despite it all, Voldemort sent off a self-made curse of his own, watching with glee as it easily slipped past Snape's shoulder, as it was designed to do, and after a moment came rushing back from behind. As it hit his opponent in between the shoulder blades, it sent him flying up into the air, encased in a dimly orange bubble, holding him prisoner as blue sparks of electricity danced from its walls and across his entire body.

As Snape thrashed around in pain, occasional growls slipping past his clenched lips, Voldemort descended to the ground and quickly raised his wand high in the air to examine the domed wards. _No, it's not them ... we aren't under attack_ , he mused and hurriedly went through all possible matters Snape could be stalling him for.

He swept his eyes across the island, seeing a dark shape come down the slim road towards him at breakneck speed. After it, the unmistakable forms of Quirinus and Lucius came running, but it was the dog Black who reached him first. Once it was nearly at his feet, the man swiftly changed back into his human formed, staring wide-eyed first at his altered appearance, and then over his shoulder with a look of mixed disbelief and blood thirst.

"Snivellus," he growled softly to himself, but Voldemort paid him no heed. With a deep sense of dread, he concluded that it must have something to do with Harry, and making the soul shard attached to the boy rush up and see through its body's eyes, he soon had his confirmation.

" _He's on the other side ... by the cave opening ... there's someone with him_ ..."

 _The traitor_ , he thought with dark fury as he turned to face Quirinus and Lucius, who stood on either side of Black, gasping for breath.

" _His mind is muddled, unfocused ... he's under the Imperious Curse._ "

 _You must get through to him_ , he urged and pierced his followers with a dark glare. "Lucius," he hissed out in a cold, pitiless voice which made all three men tense up with discomfort, "kindly escort _our dear friend_ to a private cell. I will deal with him later."

With viper quick motions, he cancelled the curse, and watched as Snape fell to the uneven ground with a sharp howl of pain. With a quick flick of his wand, Voldemort bound his enemy with a Full Body-Bind Curse before unceremoniously flipping around and grabbing his two remaining followers by their upper arms. "You two are coming with me. The traitor's got Harry," he offered as explanation before pulling them all into Apparition.

* * *

"Get into the boat," the soft-spoken voice suggested, and something within him lurched. A strong sense of nausea made itself known, and from the back of his mind, a familiar, trusted voice spoke with conviction. " _No, I will not_ ," it said, and at once, Harry felt the peripherals of his vision clear a little, and the sound of his madly beating heart came rushing back in his ears.

A strong sense of wrongness overcame him, and his mind went at once to his master, and the sense of belonging he felt when around him. "Just step into the boat ..."

" _I won't_!" the trusted voice said.

"Only one step, and you'll be free ..."

"No," he exclaimed loudly, feeling the last of the haze dissipate as he took a big step back and away from the rim of the boat. "I won't!"

" _Dodge!_ " James yelled, but it was too late. Harry felt a spell hit his right side and at once went stiff as a board before falling head first to the ground.

"Sorry Potter," the previously so kind voice grumbled roughly as he was levitated off the ground and into the bottom of the rowing boat, "not giving you the choice."

Harry felt the boat start to move, lying on his side with his left ear pressed harshly against the bottom of the boat, so that he heard the steady rush of water beneath him. He tried struggling, his mouth wide open in a silent scream – but neither movement nor sound came forth.

The boat rushed hastily across the water, but all too soon lurched to a halt, and as the vessel rocked up and down on the waves which slammed heavily against the wooden sides, hands grabbed Harry roughly by the front of his robes.

The sound of a stopped being uncorked reached his ears moments before he caught sight of a small glass vial, coming at him. At once, he struggled to slam his mouth shut, but it wouldn't budge – he couldn't move at all, not an inch.

He felt the glass lip touch his own, and felt with rising panic as a cold sludge started to trickle down his frozen tongue – but the next moment, the vial tore out of Healer Abbott's hand and landed in the sea with a weak _splash_ and an irked _fizz_ as the potion came in contact with the salt water.

Next, Harry was hit with a spell in the side, and at once found he could move again. Compulsively, he swallowed, nearly choking on the thick liquid as it slid down his throat.

"Good try, but you are too late, I am afraid," Healer Abbott said next to him, and following the direction of the old man's gaze, and wand, Harry blinked and then rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

Hovering over the dark water, pointing his wand straight in between Healer Abbott's naked eyes, was, well, _him_. Harry himself. After the initial moment of stark disbelief, the moonlight caught the red gleam of his double's eyes, and Harry blinked again as a rush of warm relief washed over him. _Master?_

* * *

Severus was forced to stare unblinkingly up at his friend and assigned jailor, before Lucius had gathered enough presence of mind to disarm him and cancel the Full Body-Bind Curse.

"Get up," Lucius commanded firmly, and yet, weakly, holding his wand high in a quivering grip.

"Lucius," Severus murmured softly as he arose, holding his naked palms up in front of him, "please, wait –"

"No," Lucius breathed out and set his jaw into an ugly grimace which left heavy shadows on his normally rather handsome face. "No you _wicked infidel_ ," he hissed and stabbed the tip of his wand into the underbelly of Severus' jaw, making his head tilt back instinctively. "You sodding _fool_ ," Lucius kept on with a crazed tint to his pale eyes. "What have you _done_!?"

"Just what I must," Severus replied softly, doing his best to radiate as much sincerity as possible, hoping his friend would understand. "I had no choice, Lucius. I had to at least _try_."

"To do what exactly?" Lucius pressed a little closer, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "The traitor ... it's _you_ , isn't it?"

"No," Severus replied at once, "I swear, I've had nothing to do with that."

"Then what happened?" Lucius hissed acidly.

"I promise you that I will tell you," Severus swore sincerely, doing his best to keep the gut-wrenching impatience out of his voice. "But you must let me go."

"Let you go," Lucius repeated with a humourless laugh. "Let you go and what, Severus? Stay here to accept the Dark Lord's fury? He's all ready threatened to harm parts of my family – Draco, Narcissa. What will stop him if I let you go now?"

"I know I am asking much," Severus urged, "but do you not think of me as part of your family? I am Draco's godfather –"

" _Do not start down that road,_ " Lucius hissed out with renewed fervour. "Do not presume I would ever choose anyone or anything before the safety and prosperity of my own blood. You know what the Dark Lord has promised us and why we cannot risk losing his loyalty."

"I am your friend," Severus rasped out with true feelings of hurt piercing him from within as his best friend stared right at him with ice cold indifference.

"In this, I am not yours."

* * *

Seizing up with terror at landing in a situation with no idea whatsoever what he was supposed to do, Quirinus stood at the water edge, watching the Dark Lord fly across the dark water to his right as Black transformed into a dog and crashed right into it with big jumps and a lot of splashing.

 _Right_ , Quirinus thought to himself, _rescue Potter. Now where is he?_ He peered through the darkness, watching as the Dark Lord shot two subsequent spells into the bottom of the boat, before a black tuft of shaggy hair poked up from behind Healer Abbott's hunched back.

Finding his options much too limited at such a range, Quirinus did the first thing that came to mind and started freezing the water in front of him to create a blank surface to step upon. Holding his wand in front of him, casting spell upon spell, he treated as quickly as he could across the crackling ice and watched the scene unfold in front of him.

The first thing that happened was that Healer Abbott sent a sequence of strong bottle green spells at the Dark Lord, who swerved to the side to avoid them. Then, the old healer pointed his wand at the water by the boat's stern, making a wave rise up and forcefully push the vessel further from the island. Next, the Dark Lord retaliated with hasty spells of his own, and as Healer Abbott raised a shield to protect himself, Potter hauled himself over the edge of the boat and landed in the water with a big splash.

This instantly drew the attention of both duelling enemies, and they immediately started inching towards the spot where Potter had taken a dive while simultaneously exchanging spell after spell – neither of them pointedly keeping from disturbing the water surrounding them.

Quirinus kept inching forwards, having reached about half-way between the shore and the boat, when he heard a sudden yelp and watched as Black's head was forcefully pulled under the water surface. The next moment, the world tilted as something grabbed hold of his ankles and pulled him to the side on the slippery surface of the ice. He landed painfully on his side and slid quickly into the cold water, and barely had the time to cast a Bubble-Head Charm before he was faced with the terrifying sight of his attacker.

* * *

His heart pounded in his head as he took hurried stroke after hurried stroke, not knowing if he made progress towards shore or not and not daring to break the water surface in case Healer Abbott would catch sight of him. An insistent voice, which might or might not have been James', had urged him to jump into the water one moment ago, and now kept telling him to keep swimming.

Harry did his best, he really did, but soon enough, he could not take it and thrashed desperately in order to get up high enough to relieve his lungs. He broke through the surface and immediately drew in a deep breath, drinking in the sharp air and trying not to think about the way his eyes stung from being held open in the salty water.

A quick look around told him that both Voldemort and Healer Abbott had seen him – but they were a good distance away now and still held up by their insistent spell-casting. Trusting his master to keep all attacks away from his back, Harry turned around and started swimming as quickly as he could towards the shore.

But he didn't make it far before a sudden force snagged hold of his right leg and pulled him back under the water surface. Spluttering against a mouthful of water, Harry flipped around just in time to see a terrifying face mere inches from his own – a grey-skinned flat face with sharp teeth and yellow eyes, surrounded by a shock of green, seaweed-like hair.

The next moment, the creature grabbed him by the hair and neck and started to swim with swift flicks of its sleek green fishtail. Harry did his best to struggle, but the creature's vice-like grip was unpitying and unrelenting. He soon became light-headed with the insistent need to breath, and just as he was sure he was going to faint, they broke surface and he took a breath very unlike the previous one in that it hurt his lungs terribly, and the air seemed to scrub his throat raw as it went in and out, in and out in cascades.

He blinked, trying desperately to get the water out of his eyes, and saw through his clouded vision as someone with flowing red and gold robes stepped closer on top of the water, as though it was solid ground. "Come here, Harry," a kind voice said, and as the man bent down to grab hold of his upper arms, Harry caught sight of a long silvery beard.

As the mermaid-like creature let go of him and Professor Dumbledore grabbed him firmer, a heart-rendering scream of fury echoed across the water, and just before Harry felt himself get pulled into Side-Along Apparition, he met eyes with Voldemort and felt at once as though his heart had been cut open. "MASTER!" he howled desperately before he was whisked away with a feeling of getting pushed through a tight rubber tube.


	25. Chapter 25

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Five

* * *

The first thing he saw once the terrible squeezing process was over was a pair of large wrought iron gates, flanked by a pair of massive statues in the form of boars, bearing a pair of feathered wings on their backs. At once, he was reminded of the day when he was snatched and kidnapped from this same spot in the form of a rabbit, and was overcome with terror.

Gasping and coughing against the water clinging to his air pipe, his ears and eyes and nose – stinging and burning – he started struggling against the vice-like grip on his upper arms. "No ... let go!" he growled in between coughs, but the hands only tightened their hold. "LET ME GO!" he shouted right into the infuriatingly calm face of Albus Dumbledore, who had curved his back and leaned down to his eye-level.

"Harry, you have nothing to fear," he said calmly. "You are safe. You are back at Hogwarts."

 _Like hell I'm safe_ , Harry thought as he kept struggling, chanting "Let go! Let go! Let go!" over and over again, doing what he could not to linger too long on the fear of what would happen to him. _I just need to get back to Voldemort_.

"What's the matter with him?" a gruff, familiar voice said behind his back, and as Dumbledore straightened to reply, Harry felt his heart clench.

Ears buzzing, feeling blocked, Harry didn't catch what the old headmaster said. Straining his neck to look as far over his shoulder as he could, he caught sight of the enormous gamekeeper, standing right behind him, Fang at his side, and clutching a frilly pink umbrella in his right hand.

Harry drew in a quick breath. Then, with his heart aching with conflicting emotions, instincts he had learned from a life full of escaping physical harm kicked in. He struggled first with all his might to the right, and when Dumbledore shifted his hold to accommodate the change, he flung himself to the left.

With a lurch he sprang free and bolted quickly down the country road. Hogsmeade, with its picturesque buildings and blossoming landscape looked tantalizingly close in the distance.

 _What do I do?_ Harry thought frantically at James as he pulled out his wand and peeked hastily over his shoulder, only to see that Dumbledore had not moved, but stood looking perfectly calm just where Harry left him. Hagrid, however, had broken into a run, but was nowhere near as close to him as Fang.

" _The dog! Quickly!_ "

Raising his wand behind his back as he kept running, Harry made a quick decision and turned his head to aim. " _Locomotor Mortis_!"

There was a startled yelp as the Leg-Locker Curse hit target, and Harry felt a sting of regret but kept running. It wasn't long before Hagrid's thundering footfalls sounded right behind him, and in a desperate attempt to escape, Harry dodged to the side, right into the thick shrubbery of the Forbidden Forest.

He heard Hagrid shout his name as he quickly rapped the top of his head and gasped out " _Occulto Ex Visum_ ", feeling rather than seeing how his body went translucent and blended in with his surroundings.

 _What do I do_? he thought frantically as he kept running, jumping and dodging his way through the wild old forest.

" _Keep running,_ " James urged, " _just hold on a bit, I'm trying to –"_

There was a sudden snap to his far right, and terrified, Harry skidded to a halt behind a large oak. Gasping for breath, he chanced a quick peek to the side of the tree trunk and saw at once the disfigured shape of a man. His scarred and mauled face grimaced at him in the sharp moonlight, and one of his eyes, which was larger than the other, glared evilly straight at him, as though it could see, not only through his Disillusionment Charm, but through the very tree he was hiding behind. Harry managed a sharp intake of breath as the man raised his wand, before everything went black.

* * *

"Who are you?" Voldemort demanded icily at the man sprawled at his feet, lying on his back on top the rough pebbles of the shore.

To Voldemort's utter infuriation, the man, wearing his old childhood friend's face, broke out into a crazed laugh that shook his entire body.

"You haven't guessed it yet?" he wheezed and struggled up to lean on his elbows. His grin widened even more still as Voldemort firmed his grip on his wand and moved it from the man's heart to right in between his eyes. "Whoever could be this big a challenge to the great Dark Lord Voldemort? Not dear old Ilbert, surely?"

"Spit it out," Voldemort demanded furiously, trying and failing not to pay any attention to the part of his soul that was attached to Harry, which continuously allowed him to see flashes of what it saw through the boy's eyes.

The man laughed again, shaking his head, and slowly reached into one of his deep robe pockets. Out of it, he pulled a glimmer of ruby red. As the hand slowly uncurled, Voldemort's heart missed a beat.

"A shame I won't be able to get this one back," Flamel wheezed with another wicked grin. "But no matter. I've had a grand time here, _my Lord_."

With an incensed hiss, failing to restrain himself, Voldemort put the smirking old man under the Cruciatus Curse and saw, at the same time as Flamel started shrieking with pain, how the vision his soul shard was showing him flickered out and died. _What happened?_ he demanded at once. In the background, he noted that Flamel's shrieks intensified.

" _Unconscious,_ " his soul shard answered at once. " _Moody caught him_. _You must hurry before he disappears beneath Hogwarts' wards._ "

Forcing himself to calm down, Voldemort ended the Torture Curse and swiftly summoned the stone before pocketing it. "How long?"

Flamel grinned up at him with a contorted expression that looked distinctly _wrong_ on Ilbert's face, sitting up and sweeping his arms out to the sides as though he was putting on a show. "Ever since your return, _old friend_. I must say; it took us quite some work to lure you out into the open. None of the baits we tried ever seemed to work – nothing but the best was ever good enough for you, _n'est ce pas_? Well, you got it in the end. A shame to be parting with it … but that doesn't really matter now; now, we've got something _even better_ to work with."

"What good is that to you?" Voldemort hissed; beyond furious. He felt such hatred for this man as he had never, in his entire life, felt for another human being. "You're dying, old man."

"Am I?" Flamel challenged with another roughish grin before his eyes went dull and his body fell headlong back onto the ground. Voldemort stared down at the slack body, watching it disintegrate into ashes until only the clothes remained.

Furious with himself for not recognising the sorcery, Voldemort promptly turned on the spot and visualised the gates outside of Hogwarts castle.

He appeared a moment later and swiftly started waving his wand around in search for Harry. When a moment later he learned that his ward had been taken back into the castle, he lost complete control of his temper and let out a furious scream that had the trees surrounding him fly clean out of the ground and away into the night.

" _Do something", "You must find him", "How dare they take what is ours", "He's too much trouble; let them have him", "They will kill him to destroy one of us", "What is one accidental Horcrux in the bigger scope of things", "HE IS NOT THEIRS TO KILL", "They will use him to control us", "Do something now", "We must get him back"_

Grinding his teeth as his mind was filled up with intrusive chatter, Voldemort summoned all his emotionlessness and Occluded his mind. At once, everything around him fell into blessed silence, and he breathed in deeply before snapping his eyes open and making a quick decision.

With swift steps, completely ignoring that his body had started its slow transition back into its natural state, he ventured into the forest where he disillusioned himself before settling under a grand Yew bush, where a non-suspecting raven sat dozing. With a steadiness which came from years of habit, he possessed it and instantly took off into the sky.

As he flew towards the castle, he took down the Occlumency Shield in order to sense the location of his soul shard in the boy. It didn't take him long, and after making a snide remark at the very vocal voices in his head, he slammed the shield back down and set off towards the other side of the castle.

He soon landed on the windowsill of a very tall window, and looking into the room within, he saw the grand doors to the Hospital Wing slowly slide open and admit a rather red-eyed half-giant, holding the tiny and very pale shape of the Dark Lord's apprentice in his arms. Unexpectedly, Voldemort started to boil with rage at the sight, and a possessive outburst of _"Mine!"_ escaped his beak in the form of a sharp croak before he once again showered himself in emotionlessness.

Under his watchful eye, a steady stream of Order members and staff members came and went. Some of them stopped to have a look at Harry before exchanging words with the half-giant – a constant companion at Harry's bedside – and others simply spoke to the matron as she ran back and forth in the room, alternating between examining her patient and retrieving potions and other remedies for him.

When it, after a while, became evident that Harry was in no immediate danger, Voldemort found it safe to leave the raven behind to guard for him. After having assured that he would receive a steady feed from its eyes whenever he wished it, he returned to his own, thankfully adult, body and Disapparated.

* * *

Still soaked to the bone, still feeling a sharp sting of salt water in his nose and eyes after his intense fight with the, as it had turned out, Transfigured Merpeople, Quirinus stood staring out at the deceptively calm ocean, rolling in softly against the rocky shoreline. He was still torn between crushed shame and breathless awe in the wake of what he had witnessed.

He felt ashamed because he had completely failed in the first task he had been assigned as one of the Dark Lord's Lieutenants. Harry Potter was gone, and Quirinus had been unable to do the least thing to stop it.

Once the vicious creatures had evaporated into clusters of seaweed, however, Quirinus had emerged from the mass of water to find himself in the middle of an awe-inspiring battle between two forces of nature. Or at least it had seemed so.

To his right; the Dark Lord in the shape of his apprentice, floating effortlessly mid-air as his short arms flung this way and that in an effort to keep up with the adult man's spell casting. To his left; Healer Abbott, standing tall in the small, oddly unscathed rowing boat, grinning wickedly as he answered his opponent's attacks with his own.

As Quirinus had slowly made his way back to shore, he had borne witness to a battle between fire and water, as the Dark Lord had taken to Conjuring a mass of flames which he consistently transformed into different shapes to suit his needs. First it was a giant cobra, landing quick strikes at the boat, before Healer Abbott shaped the mass of water around him into an enormous eagle, slashing with its wings at the snake in an effort to extinguish it.

On it went; from clusters of fiery gnats against a small tornado of water, to fireballs raining down from the starlit sky against a drizzling dome; from that same dome coming alive with flames and rapidly growing smaller until a spray of water from within doused it, to a series of lightning quick firebirds zooming straight for the old healer, who stumbled for one short moment before resuming his defensive tactic. But that had been enough of an opening for the Dark Lord, who instantly Apparated behind his opponent's back, grabbed him by the neck, and Side-Alonged him to the shore, about thirty feet away from where Quirinus had been standing.

After a heated discussion, Healer Abbott had, to Quirinus's surprise and great disgust, completely evaporated into dust. For a moment, he had had to close his eyes and shiver at the thought of such a fate, before looking up again and realising that the Dark Lord had vanished.

How much time had passed since then, Quirinus did not know, but he still stood frozen in place. His gaze was locked on the horizon as he stood thinking; feeling both terrified for not knowing what to do but wait, and even more terrified still for not knowing what the Dark Lord would do once he returned.

When the Dark Lord finally appeared, completely soundlessly, to his right, Quirinus twitched nervously and instantly fell down into a deep kneel. "M-my Lord," he said and gulped as the sound of footsteps on gravel came closer and closer. When the Dark Lord's black boots reached his line of vision, Quirinus's gaze locked onto their glistening tips.

"You have failed me," the Dark Lord said at last in a very quiet and completely emotionless voice that sent chills down Quirinus's back.

"Y-y-yes, my Lord," Quirinus managed in a ragged whisper. "I am s-so so s-s-sorry –"

"Look at me."

At the cold demand, Quirinus snapped his head up and met eyes with his master. He dearly wished he hadn't. In them he saw no pity, no anger or disappointment; only soulless indifference. The change in the man was so stark by contrast that Quirinus lost himself for a second, wondering exactly what Harry Potter meant to the Dark Lord if his disappearance managed to put such an expression on the man's face. The next moment, he was back to think of himself as the Dark Lord opened his mouth to speak.

"Do I look like someone who cares about the whys and the hows and how very sorry you are?"

Quirinus drew in a sharp breath. "No, my Lord," he squeaked.

"No," the Dark Lord confirmed and slowly raised his wand, "you of all people know me better than that. Don't you, Quirrell?"

"Yes, my Lord," Quirinus said and resigned himself.

Despite knowing what was to come, the sudden pain of the Torture Curse came as a shock, felling him to the ground and tearing a rugged scream out of his sore throat. After that, the pain settled into some sick sort of familiarity that lessened the intensity considerably. It made Quirinus sick to think that he had grown accustomed to the Cruciatus Curse, and yet, he didn't find himself that surprised. This was far from the first time he had displeased the Dark Lord, and the man wasn't exactly notorious for his forgiving nature. It was only, lately, Quirinus had thought they had moved past that. For some reason, the Dark Lord had seemed calmer, more reasonable and, dare he say it, more kind these past few weeks. But now, as he looked his master in the eye, all of the warmth and life was just gone. There was just nothing there.

"Where is Black hiding?" the Dark Lord demanded as soon as the torture had ended. Through the fog the pain had left behind, Quirinus forced his mouth to work.

"I don't know," he slurred as best he could with his face half-pressed against the rough pebbles beneath him. "Haven't seen him since before."

"Your arm."

With great effort, Quirinus reached out with his left arm in the Dark Lord's general direction, and instantly, it was snatched in a punishing grip before something sharp stabbed him in the forearm. He cried out as his entire arm was consumed by burning pain once again, but this time, it only lasted for a few seconds before his arm was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

Lying panting on the ground, head supported by the soaked mass of fabric on his head, Quirinus stared out of the corner of his eye at the Dark Lord, who was restlessly pacing back and forth along the shoreline.

 _He looks exhausted_ , Quirinus thought with wonder. It wasn't very obvious, but after a year of nursing the man back to health, sharing bodies, he was very attuned to the Dark Lord's magic and mind. Slowly, an oddly excited tingle awakened in his chest and it was with a start he realised that if he so wanted, he could, in this very moment, catch the Dark Lord off guard. This drained of mana, and this distracted by other pressing matters, he wouldn't be at all difficult to defeat. Easy, even.

 _You could be great you know_ ; the memory of the Dark Lord's words filled up his mind with seductive whispers. _I can see it_ ; Quirinus slowly reached into his pocket and curled his cold fingers around his wand; _the potential to do great deeds_ ; slowly, he retracted his arm until the entire length of wood was revealed; _to expand your knowledge_ ; holding his breath, he aimed the wand at his master's turned back; _and make yourself renowned._

A sudden bark further down the shoreline startled him, and when he realised what he had been about to do, the wand fell out of his limp hand and clattered to the ground, unused.

Next thing he knew, the black dog had run up to the Dark Lord and shifted back into human form mid-leap. Now, a very windblown Black stood in front of his master, looking thunderous.

"You let them take him!" he snarled with an accusing glare. "You were supposed to protect him!"

Quick as a viper, the Dark Lord lashed out and grabbed Black by the collar as he simultaneously put him under the Torture Curse. In contrast to Quirinus, Black did not scream, but from the way his body was twitching violently from side to side, it was evident that he was in extreme pain.

"Was I?" the Dark Lord hissed acidly into Black's face. "I seem to recall summoning two of my loyal Death Eaters to do that one, very simple task. So I ask myself, why is it that that same Death Eater, who had that very simple job, could not do it? And why is it that when he finally returns, he lays the blame on the very same man who requested his help in the first place?"

At last, Black cracked and let out a terrible scream, filled not only with pain, but with the deepest devastation.

With a disgusted sneer, the Dark Lord dropped his follower to the ground and turned towards the cave opening. "Elves," he uttered tonelessly and stood completely still waiting until three little figures appeared before him to the sound of three startlingly loud _cracks_. "You have all failed me tonight," he declared quietly and stared down at the creatures who stood shivering with fear at his feet. "You had one simple task; one which I valued above all others. To protect Harry Potter from those who wished to harm him or take him away from this place. It was because of this reason, and this reason alone, I saw any value in you. But now, it is plain to me that I was mistaken. You are not loyal servants, not at all. One of you tried to do your master's bidding and yet failed in your attempts; one of you was nowhere to be seen; and one of you betrayed me, your one true master, to help a man who has actively plotted to destroy me and everything I hold dear. So tell me, elves; does the Dark Lord Voldemort need such servants?"

The little female elf in the middle buried her head in her hands and let out a high-pitched wail while the lanky male to her right looked down at the ground in shame. The stocky male the furthest to the left looked his master straight in the eye without a flinch. "No, master does not, master," he said.

Without another word, the Dark Lord levelled his wand at the brave house-elf and uttered the Killing Curse. Quirinus quickly looked away, hearing a dull _thud_ as the elf fell dead to the ground. Left was only the wailing of the female house-elf, but after another murmured incantation and a flash of green light, complete silence reigned. Lying completely still, Quirinus waited for the third curse to come, wondering if he would be next after that, but a sudden _crack_ startled him out of his dark thoughts.

"Dobby! _"_

Snapping his head back around, Quirinus saw the Dark Lord, standing stock-still, staring down at the empty spot next to the other fallen elves. _It left_ , Quirinus thought confusedly, blinking. _But how?_

"Dobby!" the Dark Lord repeated even louder, and when he once more received no reply, his ice cold wall of indifference finally cracked, letting through an inferno of rage. " _When I find you, you miserable elf, you will wish you were never born!_ "

* * *

A sharp _crack_ from right in front of him startled Severus awake from his deep contemplation. In front of him stood a shivering and red-faced house-elf, looking to be holding himself back from injuring himself.

"Master," Dobby whimpered and threw himself at Severus's feet, gripping the hem of his robes in a weak clutch. "Please master, master must save Dobby. Master is going to kill Dobby if master does not help."

"The Dark Lord?" Severus muttered and sat up straighter. "Mustn't you obey him if he wishes to kill you?"

Dobby shook his head violently and blinked up at Severus with glistening green eyes that made Severus feel oddly uncomfortable. "Mr Severus Snape is Dobby's master too, sir. If Severus Snape wishes for Dobby to live, he can save Dobby. He can help Dobby. And then, maybe, Dobby can help him too."

"What do you have in mind, elf?" Severus demanded, refusing to show any of the surprise he might be feeling.

"Free me, sir," Dobby said in a shaky voice, gripping the robes in his hands tighter in his tiny fists. "Give me clothes. Then, I will be free, and then, perhaps, I can save Harry Potter, sir."

"Save Harry Potter," Severus whispered with wonder at the wayward elf, wondering just exactly what had gone wrong to make it so wilful. "How will you do that?"

"Dobby cannot know, sir," Dobby said and sent a worried glance over his shoulder, "but Dobby don't have much time. Master must free Dobby now, or else –"

The sharp _scrape_ of the outmost dungeon door sliding open quieted the elf and made Severus spring into action. Ignoring the protests of his broken body, he arose from the floor and tore of his cloak, which he hurriedly tossed at Dobby, who snatched it and instantly disappeared with a sharp _crack._

Once the elf had escaped, Severus let himself go and slowly slid down against the wall, panting as all the held back pain came rushing back. Just as he reached the floor, the thick iron door to his cell flew open, and in walked the Dark Lord, looking as though nothing in the whole world mattered to him.

"You freed it," he stated tonelessly, and then simply said and did nothing but look at Severus.

After an excruciatingly long minute of complete silence, during which they had merely stared at each other in open contempt, the Dark Lord shifted to lean casually against the doorframe.

"So," he said coldly, "you conspired with Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel to steal, not only my apprentice from me, but also my well-earned prize, the Philosopher's Stone."

Severus grinned openly and let out a cold laugh at the responsive expression on the Dark Lord's face. "Why yes, I did, _my Lord_. I had little choice. You make it oh so hard for me to fulfil the conditions of my vow."

"That vow is hardly trustworthy, and you know it," the Dark Lord snarled, and his red eyes glowed like embers in the darkness. "It is based on Albus Dumbledore's views of what is safe for Harry, and that, _Severus_ , is very far from the truth."

"Perhaps," Severus replied guardedly, wondering at the strange sorrow he could sense in the man before him. "But perhaps not. Either you wanted to keep the boy … or, you wanted to fatten him up until the best opportune moment to kill him publicly."

"I would never do that," the Dark Lord hissed furiously and stalked closer to the iron bars cutting the square room in two. "He carries part of my soul."

"But he is not the only one, or the only thing," Severus said and narrowed his eyes into his trademark glare. "I refuse to believe that."

"Be that as it may," the Dark Lord said and shrugged the accusation off as though it was a pesky fly, "what would that matter? Lord Voldemort would never disregard a piece of himself, wherever he would find it."

"Wouldn't he?" Severus slowly leaned closer to the bars, staring challengingly up at his enemy. "I find that very hard to believe when he has proven idiotic enough to split his soul in the first place. How could someone like that ever hold anything dear enough to wish to protect it. You are not whole! You are incapable of caring about anything."

"That is where you are wrong, Severus," the Dark Lord hissed down at him, gripping one iron bar in each hand and leaning in, so that he loomed ominously over his prisoner. "I do care. About myself."

Severus smirked. "That proves my point."

"On the contrary," the Dark Lord whispered delicately. "That boy _is_ me, and I am him. I would sooner kill all my Death Eaters before I let any harm come to him."

The words rang true, but Severus just couldn't believe it. "You lie," he stated.

The Dark Lord smirked back at him. "No."

After another long minute of complete silence, the Dark Lord let go of the bars and started to pace in front of the cage. "Have you been part of this plot to overthrow me? Have you been Dumbledore's man all along?"

"Truly? You wish to start the interrogation right now, my Lord?" Severus questioned in the mocking tone he usually reserved for Longbottom and moronic Hufflepuffs. "You look exhausted."

"Thank you for the concern."

"Perhaps after a little nap?"

"Oh, I will not allow you to sleep quite yet, Severus."

"Well then perhaps you are up for some interrogation after all. I suppose you've got a bottle of Veritaserum prepared."

"I would." The Dark Lord smiled coldly down at him. "But I have a feeling it would not work very well on you. I hear you have taken up drinking all sorts of things. Daily. For shame. With the father you had? Is that truly wise?"

"I have found my reaction to liquids quite opposite to that of my father. Fortunately."

"Yes, that is fortunate," the Dark Lord said and stopped right in front of him with an evil leer. "A job well done, Severus. But you see, I tend not to rely too heavily on magical items such as potions to get what I want. I can be quite persuasive, when I want to be."

"Go ahead, my Lord," Severus challenged with a dark glare. "Persuade me."

Still grinning, the Dark Lord immediately plunged straight into his mind and started tearing at it. Severus had come prepared for that, but he had ultimately known that if it came down to it, he would be no match for the Dark Lord. It soon turned out that he had not been wrong. Since the Dark Lord no longer cared if he did any permanent damage to Severus's mind, he had the upper hand, and after a short struggle, Severus gave in. Not out of his own free will – if he had been able to, he would have fought tooth and nail to preserve his secrets, but he could not. The Unbreakable Vow still held him leashed and prevented him from consciously damaging himself to the point when he could no longer protect Lily's son.

So the Dark Lord all too soon got full access to his mind and started perusing the memories. Images flashed before Severus's eyes as memory after memory was examined and discarded, in a perverse recollection of his life. Every now and then, Voldemort lingered on a certain scene or detail, and other times memories flashed past so rapidly Severus seriously doubted that his enemy had been able to understand anything about it at all.

Then finally, they reached the night of the Prophecy, and the Dark Lord got to watch first-hand how Severus received the news that his Lily was going to die before she could bear her son, and how he then ran to Dumbledore to seek help.

"Don't kill me!"

"That was not my intention … Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?"

"No – no message – I'm here on my own account! I – I come with a warning – no, a request – please –"

"What request could a Death Eater make of me?"

"The – the prophecy … the prediction … Trelawney …"

"Ah, yes. How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?"

"Everything – everything I heard! That is why – it is for that reason – he thinks it means Lily Evans!"

"The prophecy did not refer to a woman. It spoke of a boy born at the end of July –"

"You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down – kill them all –"

"If she means so much to you, surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?"

"I have – I have asked him –"

"You disgust me. You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?"

"Hide them all, then. Keep her – them – safe. Please."

"And what will you give me in return, Severus?"

"In – in return? Anything."

The memory tore away and several others flickered past, disregarded, until another from that very same hilltop emerged.

"I thought … you were going … to keep her … safe …"

"She and James put their faith in the wrong person. Rather like you, Severus. Weren't you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her? Her boy survives. Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and colour of Lily Evans's eyes, I am sure?"

"DON'T! Gone … Dead …"

"Is this remorse, Severus?"

"I wish … I wish _I_ were dead …"

"And what use would that be to anyone? If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear."

"What – what do you mean?"

"You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily's son."

"He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone –"

"– the Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does."

"Very well. Very well. But never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear … especially Potter's son … I want your word!"

"My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you? If you insist … I shall give you my word. In exchange for yours. Will you take the Unbreakable Vow?"

"Yes."

The scene developed into the ceremony, the most significant moment of Severus's life, which had shaped his entire future from that point on; but the Dark Lord didn't linger, not interested in the means as much as the results. And he soon got to the good parts.

The memory of the night he was first introduced to Nicolas Flamel appeared before his eyes. It told of how he had been included in an inner circle, consisting of Flamel and his wife, Dumbledore, Mundungus Fletcher, and Ilbert Abbott; of how he had learned that they had spun a plot to end the war from the inside of the Dark side's organization. It told the tale of how the five of them had worked side by side to come up with a plan, and how finally, after thorough research, Dumbledore had found a substance weak enough not to be detected as poison, but strong enough so that after a long time of steady consumption, it would alter the mind of the drinker, and eventually turn him or her insane.

It told the tale of how they had all set to work; how Fletcher had used his smuggling to access plenty ingredients without anybody knowing the better; how the Flamels had brewed tainted potion after tainted potion; how Abbott had ever so slowly stocked the Dark Lord's private potion cabinet full with their own brews; and how they had all celebrated as the Dark Lord, and his most trusted Death Eaters – who reaped the honourable benefits of accessing their lord's private stock of potions – ever so slowly turned more and more insane.

Then, it told the tale of how one by one, the crazed Death Eaters had landed themselves in deadly situation after deadly situation, and of how they one by one had perished; how none but the very best had remained, for a long time, before they died too – everyone but Bellatrix Lestrange; how the Dark Lord had been too crazed, too focused on the prophecy child to care or even notice that his followers died like flies.

After that, other memories told of how Severus had been included in their plots and schemes, helping to take down lingering Death Eaters without anybody knowing the better; of how he had been roped into working at Hogwarts, where he was required to brew potions for the Order of the Phoenix; and eventually, as the time passed and all threat from Death Eater attacks seemed to fade, of how he had ever so slowly been excluded from the circle's secret meetings.

Lastly, his meeting with Dumbledore a few days ago appeared before his eyes.

"What did you learn yesterday, Severus?"

"It is as we feared. Everything points to him rebuilding his forces. The Dark Lord has recovered completely. He has taken residence in a well-protected stronghold, and he is currently biding his time as his forces from Azkaban get back to health."

"And what of his plans?"

"He did not share his plans, Headmaster. But I do not see any reason for his plans to be much different from last time. His aim is surely still the same and he is most probably still recruiting with the same sugar-coated promises."

"I see. How did he act? Were there any signs of his insanity of old?"

"No. None whatsoever ... which is to be expected – he does have a new body now, after all."

"That is concerning."

"Headmaster ... Is it truly wise?"

"Do you not think so, Severus?"

"I am merely concerned about the consequences ... It seems apparent to me that much pain and suffering could have been avoided ... if not for –"

"– Pain for whom, I wonder? Tragedy as it was for many involved – the war was put to an end, and many lives were saved."

"Has the plan been set into motion already, then, Headmaster?"

"I am unsure."

"You do not trust me."

"Severus, I beg you not to think ill of me, but I cannot risk that Voldemort learns of this. You will be working in very close proximity to him, being such an important spy, and if he is truly singling you out at the moment, it is too big a risk."

"Have I not proven myself worthy of your trust, Headmaster? Time and time again; ever since the time of our Unbreakable Vow?"

"Loyalty and diligence are feats easily achievable in times of peace, but turn far more cruel and demanding in times of war."

"If you are quite done citing Merlin, Headmaster, I shall take my leave. I have much work to do, if Madam Pomfrey's calculations are to be consulted."

"Just one more thing. What of Harry? Are there any signs of him?"

"Not yet."

The Dark Lord didn't linger for very long after that, and once he had extracted his intrusive presence in his victim's mind, Severus's body caved in to the exhaustion and he fell into a deep sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Six

* * *

Waking up, Harry felt heavy. His head was stuffy and his body aching. Sitting up in the small and uncomfortably hard bed he had been resting on, he recollected with shock that he had returned to Hogwarts. The spotless Hospital Wing was eerily empty. In the other end of the room, a long row of arched windows let in the morning sunlight, and their thin white curtains swung slowly back and forth in the gentle breeze travelling into the long room from the windows' upper, slightly ajar parts.

Harry's heart beat fast as he looked around the room. Next to his bed stood a small bedside table, and on it was a glass of water, nothing else. On the other side of his bed stood an empty, rather hard-looking, armchair. Other than that, Harry found himself completely alone in the middle of the long row of rickety hospital beds.

 _Where's my wand_ , he thought with increasing panic and hurriedly climbed out of bed. _And my clothes?_ He found that he was wearing a blue and white pinstriped pair of pyjamas in a rather coarse cotton fabric that was quite unlike what he had grown used to wear living with Voldemort.

 _Master,_ he thought then and started tearing through his bedsheets, pillows and, finally, the entire mattress after his lost wand. _Where IS it_ , he thought irately when his search came up with nothing.

" _Maybe Dumbledore or that creepy man has it,"_ suggested James, making Harry frown.

 _But it's mine! They can't just take it, can they!_ Fear turning into anger, Harry stomped over to the grand doors in the left end of the room and pulled at one of the handles. When the door didn't budge, he tried the other one, and gave it an infuriated kick with his naked right foot when that, too, refused to open.

"Hey!" he shouted and started banging with both fists on the door. "Anybody there? Let me out! Let me out NOW!"

"Mr Potter," a voice called disapprovingly from across the room, and flipping around, Harry saw Madam Pomfrey come out of one of the smaller doors in the other end of the room. "What are you doing out of bed? Come back here, at once."

"Where's my wand?" Harry said accusingly, staying right as he were, pressed up against the entrance doors as the matron started walking towards him with a very stern expression. "And my clothes?"

"Now, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey said after tearing her narrowed eyes away from the bed Harry had been sleeping in. "Look at the mess you've made." She flicked her wand into a couple of wide curves, and at once, the mattress, sheets and pillows jumped off the floor and laid themselves neatly onto the bed again.

"I was looking for my wand," Harry said through clenched teeth and watched in dismay as Madam Pomfrey came closer. "Where is it?"

"Oh don't fret," Madam Pomfrey exasperatedly and stopped in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Of course you will get it back, Mr Potter, but must you be so stubborn? You're not allowed to use it for the summer anyway. Now come on, back to bed!" With that, she grabbed hold of his right upper arm and started dragging him across the room.

" _Wait,"_ urged James when Harry tensed up and opened his mouth to protest. " _Just do as she says. Think about it; they're not very likely to give you back your stuff if you're being nasty, are they? Just lay low for a while, act normal, and just go along with what they say. They must not suspect that we want to go back to Voldemort. If we're ever going to get out of here, we can't have them breathing down our neck._ "

 _That's true_ , Harry thought with resignation and obediently followed his jailor back to the bed. Once he had climbed back in and allowed Madam Pomfrey to tuck him in, he lowered his eyes down to his hands on top of the covers.

"I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey. I didn't mean to be rude," he said in the soft, apologetic voice he had commonly used to placate nosy teachers who asked questions about the Dursleys. "I just … I was just scared."

"That is quite all right, Mr Potter," the matron replied after a tense moment in complete silence. "No harm done. Now, just wait here while I go get you your potions."

 _What do I need potions for,_ wondered Harry and discretely glared at Madam Pomfrey's turned back as she briskly walked out of the room and closed the door behind her. _I feel fine._

Despite he doubts, he stayed calm and gentle as a lamb as Madam Pomfrey fussed over him, checked his temperature, had him drink three very foul-smelling and foul-tasting potions, and then sat down to ask him question after question. Did he have a headache? Did he feel dehydrated? Did his eyes or nose itch? Did he have a sore throat? Did he feel queasy? Did his tummy feel bloated?

When he had answered all of her questions, she lowered her parchment and stared him intently in the eyes. "How about your glasses. Do you no longer require them?"

"Err, I –"

" _Lie!"_

"– I mean … I lost them."

"I see," Madam Pomfrey said promptly and glanced down at the parchment in her lap. "That is something we will have to fix. We cannot have you stumble about like a blind bat. Here." She waved her wand in slow motions and said very softly " _Oculus_ ". Out of thin air, a pair of round, rather large glasses appeared and fell down onto the bed in Harry's lap. Picking them up, he saw that they were similar in shape to his old ones, but not at all the same.

"Well, put them on," the matron urged and then smiled softly when he did as told. "Now then, we will have to alter the lenses to suit you. Just sit still at say stop when you see clearly."

Not daring to stop at his own, none existent strength in case she decided to check afterwards, Harry waited for his vision to clear, and once it did, he waited a little more and muttered "Stop!"

"There you go," said Madam Pomfrey with a gentle smile and arose. "Now then, time for breakfast I believe." At once, a food tray with a bowl of porridge, a cup of steaming hot tea and an apple on it appeared on the bedside table. "Eat," the matron ordered as she started walking towards the door she had come from. "And don't even think about getting out of bed again while I'm gone."

"I won't," Harry promised and watched his jailor grow smaller and smaller, and blurrier and blurrier. "Great," he exclaimed with a sigh once the door had closed behind her. "Just great."

" _You can't take them off,"_ James warned when Harry moved to do just that. " _You have to stay in character, even when you're alone. You can't know who will barge in on you."_

Heaving a deep sigh, Harry picked up the tray of food and started to play around with his spoon in the porridge. His mind filled up with scheme after scheme as he planned his great escape. But not unlike that day on Ravenclaw Cliff, when he had stood by the shore and cursed his inability to craft a boat, he came up with nothing constructive. Well, he could come up with quite a few ideas, actually, but all of them required a wand …

" _It's pretty ironic, isn't it?_ "

 _What is?_

" _You've spent all this time wishing you could return to Hogwarts, and now you're here, and all you can think of is how to escape._ "

The stabbing motion Harry made with his spoon finally became too much for the porridge, which flooded over the edges of the bowl and splatted all over the tray. _Yeah well, things have changed_ , Harry thought irately and looked around for a napkin to wipe the mess off with. When he couldn't find one, he sighed and slowly scooped up a spoonful of food and ate it.

Feeling stuffed already, he grimaced, put the spoon down and discarded the tray on the bedside table. With a deep sigh, he then shuffled down into a lying position and stared up at the blurry ceiling.

He lay like that for quite a while, contemplating his fate, growing more and more anxious, until one of the main doors to the wing _clicked_ and then slid open, admitting the unmistakable shape of Albus Dumbledore.

At once, Harry scrambled to sit up. "Professor Dumbledore!"

"Good morning, Harry," Dumbledore replied cheerfully, coming towards him in calm strides. "I hope you are feeling well. It appeared that yesterday's events gave you a bit of a turn."

"Yes, sir," Harry said and smiled at Dumbledore, who smiled back and sat himself down in the armchair next to the bed. "I'm sorry. I was just very tired and … I didn't know what was happening."

"I imagine, to one in your position," Dumbledore said in a comforting tone, "it must have seemed a very cruel joke, or trial perhaps, to test your convictions. It is entirely understandable that you would be startled."

"Err, yeah," Harry said and nodded. "I – that's what I thought."

Kindly, Dumbledore smiled and leaned forwards in his seat to put his bony hand on top Harry's. "Far greater witches and wizards than yourself have been played by Lord Voldemort, dear boy. For someone as young and as new to the wizarding world as you, you have done remarkably well."

"I have?" Harry asked hesitantly, ignoring his instant reflex to berate Dumbledore for speaking the Dark Lord's name.

"Do you not think so?" Dumbledore asked and leaned back in his chair, removing his hand.

" _Careful,_ " James warned.

"I … I don't know," Harry replied hesitantly and started fiddling with the covers. "I guess … I just did what I had to."

Slowly, Dumbledore nodded and looked up at him over the rim of his half-moon shaped glasses. "And I am incredibly relieved that you are safe and sound. Allowing Voldemort to make you his apprentice was, naturally, the only thing you could do to save yourself."

Harry's face promptly drained of all colour, and his heart skipped a beat. "You know about that?" he whispered and received another cheerful smile.

"Like I said; you have acted most admirable for someone in that positon. I imagine Voldemort must have appeared quite likeable to you. Charming people always was one of his specialities after all, ever since a young boy."

Looking down at his fiddling fingers, Harry racked his brain for a good reply. _How much does he know anyway?_

" _Assume he doesn't know anything more than he's already let on. Try to keep your replies short and noncommitting."_

"I guess he was pretty nice to me … sometimes," he whispered and kept his head lowered.

"That is quite the relief," Dumbledore's warm voice said. "However, I must admit myself rather surprised of his choice … Judging by what I have learned about his actions in the past, he has never taken to a person quite like he took to you. Do you have any idea why he would do so?"

A short moment passed, during which Harry pretended to think. "No, I don't think so sir," he whispered then, and looked up at Dumbledore with an apologetic expression. "I thought he was going to kill me … But then, one day, master just –"

"Call him Voldemort, Harry," Dumbledore cut in. "You are out of his reach now, and I would advise you to always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

Feeling himself pale again, Harry looked down. "Look … I can't, Professor … I'm sorry."

There was a drawn out pause, and when Harry carefully glanced up at Dumbledore after a full minute of silence, he saw that the old headmaster had become very interested in an ink-black raven out on the window-sill. After another silent minute, Dumbledore turned back to look at him with a calm, but rather sorrowful expression.

"I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you'd like to tell me."

"If there is anything you want to know, sir, just ask," Harry replied quietly before looking back at the raven, who sat staring straight at him a little too intently. _Is that their spy for me?_

" _Could be._ "

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore replied and arose from his seat. "You are, of course, entitled to the same treatment from me. If there is anything you wish to know, simply ask."

"Actually," Harry called out before Dumbledore could take more than three steps towards the exit. "Actually, Professor, there is one thing … I was just wondering if I could have my wand back."

"Certainly," Dumbledore said and immediately dug it out of a deep pocket in his sparkly red and golden robes. "Here you go," he said and held it out handle first.

Slowly, Harry reached out and took it, secretly rejoicing at the feel of it reconnecting with his mana pool in a flurry of warmth, which spread up his arm and left a tingle in its wake. "Thank you, sir," he said and forced himself to smile. "And my clothes?"

"I am convinced that Poppy will see fit to return your garments as soon as you are back to health," Dumbledore replied with a wink. "Regarding your wand though, Harry, I am afraid that I must remind you that it is completely forbidden for underage wizards to do magic outside school."

"But this _is_ school, sir," Harry said, trying his best to sound innocent.

His reply made Dumbledore chuckle and shake his head. "Nevertheless, you cannot be permitted to do magic unsupervised. I am afraid I must insist."

Guts burning with rage, Harry watched Dumbledore leave, and when the door had closed and _clicked_ locked behind the old wizard, he permitted himself to glare darkly.

 _You were right; he had it._

" _Figures. And now he's locked you in here again. At least you have your wand back._ "

 _Much good that does me_ , Harry thought bitterly and righted the uncomfortable spectacles which had started to slide down his slightly moist nose. _I can't bloody use it without getting found out._

" _You just have to bide your time_ ," James assured softly. " _We will wait for an opportunity to show itself … and when it does, we will be ready_."

* * *

When Severus slowly cracked his eyes open to find himself alive, he barely believed it. He had been convinced, last night after the Dark Lord had finished rummaging through his memories, that he would not see another day. And yet: here he was.

Groaning, he heaved himself up off the cold stone floor and propped himself up against the wall in a sitting position. Ignoring his thundering headache, Severus took in the small space of dripping wet stone, and saw a dark shape stand outside the black iron bars, staring down at him.

Carefully, he let his mind reach out towards the shape, and immediately identified him. "Lucius," he hissed coldly. "Why have you come? You cannot possibly think that I wish to see you."

"I know," his old friend whispered and took a step closer to the cell. "Severus, I will not … burden you with excuses. I know I failed you, and you know I did it to save my family. Let's leave it at that."

Refusing to acknowledge the sting of betrayal he felt at not being included in that _family_ , Severus merely sneered just in case Lucius could see him in the dark.

"I came here for answers." The dark shape took another step forwards. "I asked you last night, and you promised to explain, so … enlighten me. What possessed you to attack the Dark Lord?"

"Why should I honour that promise?" Severus asked through clenched teeth. "I swore as a friend, but you put an end to our friendship –"

"I did not," Lucius refused hotly. "I merely refused to stand behind your folly, but I never meant to say that we are no longer friends."

"How convenient," Severus whispered acidly. "Shall we be friends now, when you want something from me?"

"When I want something from you?" Severus revelled in the way his old friend's voice shook as he took a final step up to the bars and grabbed hold of them with both hands. "Severus, I swear, no matter what I have said or done out of necessity, it cannot and will not change our friendship. Not in my mind at least."

"Ever heard of something called loyalty?" When he squinted, Severus could just barely make out Lucius's crushed expression, laying unveiled for him to see. The sentimentality irked him.

"Loyalty," Lucius replied slowly, "is why I did what I did for my son, Severus. You know as well as I that only the Dark Lord can save him –"

"I know that that is what you think," Severus said coldly. "But the Dark Lord is not the only wizard with the power to break powerful curses."

"I could never go to Dumbledore," Lucius hissed, growing incensed. "And every other attempt has ultimately failed. I failed, Narcissa failed, my father failed, _you_ failed and countless others. Even Bellatrix failed."

"And how do you know that the Dark Lord will keep his promise?" Severus watched with satisfaction as fear chilled Lucius entire body to the core.

"Have you learned something? The elf – did he say something?"

"And why should I tell you?"

" _Severus_ ," Lucius hissed, angry again. "You are Draco's godfather. Should you not – if not for my sake, then his – stay true to your word?"

Feeling backed into a corner, Severus let out a deep exasperated sigh and turned his face sharply to the side. With his own little huff, Lucius hunched down in front of the cell in an effort to come face to face.

" _Please_ ," he whispered. "All I know is that my best friend betrayed the only person who can help me and my family. I don't know why, or what happened or anything. Would you _please_ , for once in your life, stop acting like a child –"

"– Interesting tactic: calling me childish –"

"– and tell me what the _hell_ is going on?" Reluctantly, Severus met Lucius's hard stare. "What are you; a Slytherin or a Gryffindor? I recognise that your prolonged friendship with Lily Potter might have –"

" _Evans_ ," Severus hissed acidly. "Her name was _Lily Evans_."

"– might have taught you to hold grudges. And would you bloody _stop_ interrupting me!?"

After a moment of ice cold silence, Severus nailed Lucius with a blank stare. "You want me to act Slytherin, do you? Well then, how about a trade..."

Brows creasing with worry, Lucius licked his lips and slowly nodded. "Go on."

"I refuse to die like this, crumpled up in some dingy cell," Severus bit out stiffly, each syllable rolling off his tongue with careful precision. "I have not yet finished what I … must do … If you truly _are_ my friend still, then prove yourself to me. Save my life, and I will tell you everything you wish to know."

Lucius sat contemplating him for a good while, slowly drumming his fingers against the coarse iron bars in his hands. "I cannot go against the Dark Lord," he murmured at last before offering Severus the tiniest of smiles. "But I might convince him of your value."

* * *

Instinctively following the burn of his Dark Mark, Quirinus travelled through the fortress, passing by terrified-looking Death Eaters hurrying past him without as much as a glance. The atmosphere was extremely tense, and every room was eerily quiet, as though no-one dared to speak.

However, everything was not silent. All day, sudden screams of terror and pain had rung from the ground floor and up the entire stone building, before the quiet had settled once more. Currently, such a scream rang louder and lounder the further down Quirinus travelled.

Fearing what he would find at his destination, Quirinus took the last couple of steps through the Entrance Hall and entered the Ground Floor Reception Room.

In the middle of the white and black checkered floor stood the Dark Lord, with his back turned to Quirinus and his wand pointed down at a wildly convulsing Lucius Malfoy. Gut churning with pity for the man and relief that it was not Quirinus himself who lay there on his back, he stood silently by the entrance, waiting patiently for the Dark Lord to finish.

"Do you have any more requests to make of me, Lucius?" The Dark Lord's softly spoken words sent a chill of terror down Quirinus spine, and once again, he thanked everything holy that it was not _he_ who was the target of his master's ire.

"No, my Lord," Malfoy wheezed pitifully and looked up at the Dark Lord with pleading eyes.

"Truly?" The Dark Lord started to circuit slowly around his prey. "No more words of wisdom? No more pathetic excuses?"

"No! No, my Lord, I swear!" Malfoy gasped and whimpered as the Dark Lord stopped at his feet and levelled his wand on him once more.

"Did you really think, Lucius, that anything you would have to say would affect my decisions?"

"I – I apologise, my Lord, I –"

" _Enough_ ," the Dark Lord hissed in a voice barely human. "Not another word … Get out of my sight."

At once, Malfoy scrambled to his feet and barely took the time to curtsey before tearing past Quirinus's immovable form and out the door. As soon as the Ambassador was gone, the Dark Lord's blood red eyes turned in their sockets and pierced Quirinus with a burning stare.

"Approach," the Dark Lord said quietly, barely moving his lips as he spoke.

The lack of hostility calmed Quirinus down considerably, and keeping his back straight, he stepped up to his master and curtseyed while proudly keeping eye contact. _He_ had nothing to fear. _He_ had already been punished for his mistakes. And after all, hadn't the Dark Lord himself claimed that _he_ was his most trusted Death Eater? His most loyal?

Quirinus gave a small smile, which quickly faded when the Dark Lord didn't change his stony expression in the slightest. "You called for me, my Lord," Quirinus said once the silence had become overbearing.

"I did," the Dark Lord agreed softly and then turned fully to face him. "I was merely wondering, Quirinus …"

"Yes, my Lord?" Quirinus replied eagerly, basking in the fact that _he_ _alone_ appeared immune to being subjected to torture and verbal abuse.

"I was wondering," the Dark Lord repeated quietly, "whether you have paid any thought to that which you promised to think though for me?"

"My Lord?" Quirinus asked confusedly, racking his brain for what his master could be referring to. "I-I … I'm n-not sure –"

"You promised me," the Dark Lord cut in sharply, and Quirinus couldn't help but flinch at the tone, "to contemplate if you knew anything at all about the traitor in my ranks, and report back to me … Well, have you found anything?"

"But I –" Quirinus started, confusedly trying to make out what the Dark Lord wanted from him. "But you already know who the traitor is, my Lord? We learned about it last night? Healer Abbott…"

" _We_ learned, Quirinus?" the Dark Lord whispered delicately, and his eyes started to swirl worryingly. "Do you mean to say that _you_ had any part whatsoever in unveiling Ilbert's true character?"

Quirinus didn't understand. Why was the Dark Lord angry with him? What had he done this time? Why did he always manage to displease when he _tried so hard_?

"No, my Lord," he replied with an impatient huff, "I apologise. I meant to say that _you_ learned about it."

"And what did _you_ learn, Quirinus?"

"I learned the same," he insisted proudly, growing impatient with the Dark Lord's word games. "That Ilbert Abbott is the traitor you have sought – who leaked my position to Kingsley Shacklebolt and who conspired with Severus Snape to kidnap Potter –"

The curse came at him like a bolt from the blue, and the next moment, he was lying at the Dark Lord's feet, curling up on his side and howling with mind-melting pain. The next moment, the curse was lifted, and the Dark Lord's ice cold voice rang clear in the once more eerily silent room.

"Do not speak his name!" A drawn out moment of silence, and then, the Dark Lord appeared to have composed himself. "So your report to me, Quirinus, is that Ilbert Abbott is the traitor I seek?"

"Yes!" Quirinus exclaimed and struggled back onto his feet before looking down his nose at the Dark Lord. "Yes! Abbott is the traitor you seek! How many times do I have to say it, _my Lord_?" When the torture curse hit him this time, Quirinus bit his teeth together and remained standing, quickly growing used to it.

When he noticed how little impact the spell had on his subject, the Dark Lord's face clouded. Next, he took three quick strides forwards and unceremoniously backhanded Quirinus so hard he fell back down to the floor. " _Wrong_ , Quirinus! All wrong!" he hissed down at him as he leaned down and grabbed him painfully by the neck. "You have failed me, yet again."

As he was hauled back to his feet by the firm grip around his neck, Quirinus glared straight into the red eyes of his master and spat out: "Well then, forgive me, my Lord. Forgive me, but I have done my best."

"And do you think _your best_ is good enough," the Dark Lord hissed out, inches from his face.

"No, _my Lord,_ you misunderstand," Quirinus growled and then gasped as the hands around his neck squeezed harder. "I meant that I want you to forgive me."

"You … want me … to forgive you?" The Dark Lord's tone promised murder, but Quirinus refused to back down. Not this time.

"You swore to grant me a wish, remember?" he wheezed, feeling a rush of heady overconfidence. "You said that I was your most loyal … most valued, and that I should be rewarded. You asked me to name a gift; anything I wanted."

"Did I?" the Dark Lord hissed before cruelly tossing him to the ground, where he landed painfully on his side. "Did I now? I distinctly recall that conversation. I believe I said something like this: 'Lord Voldemort will always punish failure and negligence, but he will also praise and reward loyalty and diligence'. Do you believe yourself worthy of Lord Voldemort's praise for your infallible _loyalty and diligence_ , Quirinus?"

Finally, it dawned on Quirinus that perhaps, he was not as much in his Lord's good graces as he had thought he was. With the realisation came the fear, and he started to quiver. "B-but, my L-Lord, you s-s-said –"

"I will ask again, Quirinus; do you believe the man who successfully obliterated the Dark Lord's troll army in a matter of minutes worthy of praise, when he could not even save his own skin without the help of his Lord?"

"B-but, my Lord, you d-did praise me –"

"And do you believe the man who failed at the task he was given and then reported false information to his Lord worthy of praise?" the Dark Lord continued mercilessly. When Quirinus merely stared up at him with wide eyes, he continued in an even deadlier tone. "And do you believe the man who utterly failed to protect his Lord's apprentice worthy of praise, when he didn't even see fit to _chase_ after his abductors once the _measly_ obstacles had been take care of?"

"N-n-no my Lord," Quirinus managed in a broken whisper, watching with dread as the Dark Lord hunched down in front of him, wand held lazily in his left hand.

"No," the Dark Lord agreed softly and traced the side of Quirinus's face with the tip of his wand. "And do you believe such a man capable of shouldering the responsibility of caring for yet another part of the Dark Lord's army?"

Angry tears started to leak out of Quirinus's eyes, and he felt his heart start to burn with scorned fury. "You're demoting me?"

"You, Quirinus, is not even worthy of calling yourself a _Death Eater_ ," the Dark Lord hissed, and quick as a viper, he snatched hold of Quirinus left arm. The next moment, the sleeve of his favourite robes was torn open at the ink black mark stared up at them against the paleness of his skin.

Before he had had a chance wrap his mind around what was about to happen, the Dark Lord had pushed the tip of his wand deep into the dark tattoo and started chanting. A sudden, terrible pain erupted all the way up Quirinus's arm, and everything around him seemed to mix together in a blurry haze of _pain, pain, pain,_ and, _oh god please someone make it stop, make it stop_.

Once he came to, he had lost all track of time – whether it had been a second or an hour was impossible to tell. The only thing he knew, as he gazed down at his left arm, which the Dark Lord dropped as if scalded before arising, was that it was now completely bare.

"My Lord," he whispered brokenly. "Why?"

"I am not your Lord any longer," the Dark Lord said in a voice completely void of emotion. "I am, once more, your master … and you, my lowly servant. See that you make yourself useful, Quirrell. I seem to have robbed myself of all house-elves, and there are plenty of mouths to feed. Perhaps the kitchen is a more suitable place for you."

And with that, the Dark Lord strode out of the room and left Quirinus behind, sobbing on the floor.

* * *

Lying on his side in the darkening Hospital Wing, pretending to sleep, Harry listened to the door opening and closing behind Hagrid before the lock clicked shut.

Relieved to finally find solitude, Harry arose from the bed and padded over the cold floor to the foot end, where his trusty Hogwarts trunk stood. It had been delivered to him earlier in the day, but he hadn't been able to go through it at any length since he had been under constant supervision all day. If it hadn't been Hagrid, it had been Madam Pomfrey. If it hadn't been Madam Pomfrey, it had been a Mr Lupin who had stared oddly at him but barely spoken a word. And if it hadn't been Mr Lupin, it had been Professor McGonagall.

By now, it was ten p.m. and he had yet to come up with a plausible escape plan.

With a contented little sigh, he pulled out his father's trusty old cloak and carefully folded it into as small a square he could. Then, very wearily, sending the suspicious raven outside the window a mistrusting glance, he pointed his wand at the cloak and intoned " _Reducio_ ". To his utmost relief, the cloak shrunk without struggle, and once he was pleased with the size he cancelled the charm and put the tiny object into the breast-pocket of his pyjamas.

Next, he dug through his trunk in search for a book, any at all, that would teach him spells he could use to get out of the castle and back to his master. He picked up, leafed through and discarded both _Magical Theory_ and _the Standard Book of Spells Grade 1_ before finding _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-protection_. That one, he took with him as he returned to the bed and leaned back against the headboard.

With an annoyed sigh, he tore the useless glasses off his face and discarded them on his bedside table, resolute to feign sleep if Madam Pomfrey decided to pay him a night-time visit.

He had leafed through half the book and mentally made a list of twelve spells he would attempt to learn, when something foreign started to stir in the back of his mind. Half asleep, Harry blinked and frowned in confusion.

 _James?_

At once, his soul piece shushed him. _"Wait, just listen_!"

Anxiously, Harry waited with bated breath for what was to come. The only thing he could hear for a long time was the furious beating of his own heart, but then, distantly as though it had been the wind blowing outside the windows, he heard _something_. A mere whisper.

Dead set on hearing what the voice said, Harry settled into a more comfortable position against the headboard and focused on calming himself just like Voldemort had taught him. Slowly, as he imagined Voldemort's soothing hisses, his heart started to calm down and once he had gone completely tranquil, the voice spoke again.

" _Harry …_ " it whispered, as though from right behind the shell of his right ear. " _Harry_ …"

 _Master?_ Harry tried anxiously, but as soon as he did, he lost all focus and tumbled out of his meditative state. _No!_ he thought, furious with himself. _James, what was that? Was that Voldemort?_

" _Yes,_ " James replied solemnly. " _I think he's been trying to reach you on and off the entire day … or, it's not strictly Voldemort, but his soul shard. The one you carry with you._ "

 _If I speak to it, can Voldemort hear me?_

" _It would be possible,"_ James admitted, but there was reluctance in his voice. " _But, Harry, I'm sorry but … we're not strong enough. Not yet. I tried to reach him, yesterday, when we ran through the forest … but I couldn't … I'm sorry, but I don't think we'll be able to reply_."

Ignoring the sharp sting in his heart, Harry resolutely resumed his studies. Perhaps he couldn't speak to his master, but he _could_ do his best to get back to him in once piece.

All throughout the night, Harry read and practiced, read and practiced; and outside the window, the raven kept watch over the Dark Lord's ward.


	27. Chapter 27

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

* * *

It was the middle of the night; he instinctively knew it, although the cold darkness surrounding him offered him no proof. Somehow, his body felt it; had succumbed to a heavy stupor that kept sleep away. He had sat there, propped up against the stone wall, for hours, mindlessly staring straight ahead. After a while, his mind had slipped away and stopped caring for his body – whether he was hungry, tired or in pain he could not tell. He was miles away.

After Lucius's visit, there had been no signs of life around him. No sounds. No light. Only moist darkness and the rank smells of his own body fluids. There had been nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts; all of which spiralled around and around until they ended up in the same place – he was not done yet. However much the deep tiredness wished to consume him, he had no choice but to ignore it. Potter was not yet safe – he could feel it. The Vow – the chain around his neck – was unrelenting. He was not allowed to give up yet.

After hours upon hours of dull silence, the scraping sound of the dungeon door being pushed open scratched his ears raw, and the dim light of a Wand-Lighting Charm made his eyes ache and fill up with moisture.

In the door opening stood Black – _of course it's him; who else_ – staring down at his childhood rival with a haunted expression.

Severus made to hiss at him to leave him be, but when his dry mouth refused to produce any sound but an embarrassing croak, he snapped it shut and settled on glaring darkly.

"Snivellus," Black said at last, raising his chin and stepping pompously into the room, leaving all insecurity in the corridor behind him.

"Pratfoot," Severus returned instantly, enjoying the flash of fury in Black's eyes as his precious nickname was used in vain.

"It's _Padfoot_ , Snape, and don't you forget it."

Severus smirked up him and gave a low chuckle. "It's _Severus_ , Black, and don't you forget it," he mimicked in a high voice and sneered up at the other man, whose face had started turning red.

"Shut up," Black said indignantly and narrowed his eyes.

"Shut up or what, Pratfoot? You'll set another werewolf on me?"

"You crazy son of a bitch," Black muttered, half to himself. "I cannot believe that I felt sorry for you, even for a moment –"

"Projecting, are we?" Severus hissed at once. "I don't _want_ your pity."

"Oh don't worry," Black hissed back, "You don't have it."

"I rejoice," Severus deadpanned and sent another hateful glare up at Black. "State your business, preferably quickly, leave, and I might actually cheer."

Black gave a derisive snort at that. "Cheering isn't in your vocabulary, Snivellus. But I'll be brief. The Dark Lord sent for you."

"So you're his latest errand boy, I see," Severus mused and smiled as Black's expression turned thunderous. "How proud you must be. The simple fee of your best friends' lives, a couple of years in Azkaban, and in return, the chance to run errands for your master. What an exciting life you lead."

"Shut up, Snape!" Black snarled and pointed his wand down at Severus with a stabbing motion. "Shut up! I never betrayed James and Lily. Never!"

"Are you telling me or yourself, Black?" Severus returned just as heatedly.

" _You_! I'm telling _you_ , Snape, that I never did it!"

"I don't believe you."

"I don't _care_ what you think!"

"Then why are you shouting?"

Breathing harshly, and blinking as though coming out on the other end of an Imperious Curse, Black took a step back and retracted his wand. "I don't. I don't _care_ , Snivellus," he insisted once he had regained his bearing. "But I refuse to admit to something _I did not do_. Peter was their Secret Keeper, not me."

"Lies," Severus said, but was ignored.

"It was Peter who betrayed them to the Dark Lord … I did ask them to switch to him, I did, but I never thought …"

"Oh spare me, Black," Severus drawled and received another hateful glare in return. "Whatever makes you sleep at night."

After a long moment of complete silence, during which Black looked torn between insisting on the validity of his story and leaving it be, be finally chose the latter and started waving his wand in front of the lock on the wrought iron gate. "Get up," Black snapped once the lock had _clicked_ , and as Severus painstakingly arose, the door slid open. A spell hit him, and against his will, his arms folded themselves behind his back, useless. "Keep walking," Black commanded darkly, and once Severus had hobbled out of the cell, he felt the tip of a wand push into the small of his back.

They travelled in silence, out of the cold dungeon, up the slim spiral staircases, into a dark corridor on the Ground Floor of the fortress and up the grand staircase to the First Floor. Then, down to the left and into the usual sitting room. In one dark corner, with his back turned, stood the Dark Lord, silently gazing out the tall window.

"Leave us," he said in a stiff whisper, ringing loud in clear in the ominously quiet room.

"My Lord," Black murmured, made a very minute curtsey and left. Once the door behind Severus's back had clicked shut, the Dark Lord turned.

In the light of the moon streaming in through the tall windows to the left, the Dark Lord's exhaustion was pure as day. His red eyes were sunken, his complexion sickly pale, and the shadows fell across his face in such a way that the hollows of his cheeks and his sharp cheekbones stood out so prominently, he looked akin to a skull.

"You look like death warmed over," the Dark Lord finally commented in another dry whisper, and Severus retaliated by twisting his face into an ugly sneer.

"You're one to speak."

An evil glint sparkled alive in the Dark Lord's eyes, glowing like embers in the darkness. "Yes, Severus. Look what has become of me. Feast your eyes upon the sight. This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"No," Severus said in a bored drawl. "I wanted you dead for what you did to Lily … but I suppose this is a step in the right direction."

"Insolence," the Dark Lord murmured with some amusement dancing in his voice. "I suppose you can afford it now. You are a dead man, Severus Snape."

Severus settled on a dark glower as the Dark Lord began pacing in slow circuits around him, as though he was prey about to be gobbled.

"I hope you realise that every breath you take from this point on is borrowed." The Dark Lord stopped in front on him and placed an almost loving left hand around his throat. "That it is in Lord Voldemort's hands to quench –" the hand constricted till his breath started coming out as ragged gasps. After a torturously long while, once the room had started to blur around him, the hand relented. "– or maintain your flame. I am the very _air_ you breathe now, Severus. I recognise that it must not mean much to you, as a dead man. I am quite aware that were it your choice, you would have taken your life the night of your precious Lily's death … but, it is entirely out of your hands now. You are an Inferius, and I your creator. You might have danced to Dumbledore's tune before this point, but you will relent. It is Lord Voldemort who will prevail, and you must do as told."

Before Severus could do anything to stop it, his right arm sprang free and clung onto the Dark Lord's stretched out right arm, holding firmly onto the wrist as a just as firm hand held onto his. Severus eyes widened with the realisation of what the Dark Lord was about to do – after all, this scene was discomfortingly similar to one he had experienced before. Just like back then, he was faced with a man so powerful the ceremony would require no Bonder to work.

"Will you, Severus, strive to redeem yourself in the eyes of Lord Voldemort?"

His sharp snarl in denial died on his lips – the Unbreakable Vow he'd made to Dumbledore kicking in to save his life. He knew he'd have no chance of fighting it until he'd made sure Potter was safe, but that didn't mean he wouldn't give his all to stop it. He kept silent, for a good while, and as his eyes started to squint with struggle, his reply was torn out of his lips. "I will." At once, a thin tongue of brilliant flame sprang out of the Dark Lord's fingertips and wound itself around their hands.

"And will you do everything in your power to undo the damage done to one Bellatrix Lestrange by the Order of the Phoenix?"

Cold sweat broke out all along Severus's body as he panted, and struggled, and panted. But all the same, the result was no different. "I will." Another tendril of magic burned alive, coiling around their clutched hands like a red-hot wire.

"And will you, in the name of the Dark Lord Voldemort, kill Albus Dumbledore and therein free yourself from his Unbreakable Vow?"

He paused at that, feeling torn in two directions as the Vow struggled between the urge to keep him alive and simultaneously maintaining itself. He attempted to pull away, which resulted in a decision. "I will." A third fiery tongue issued and once it had swirled into place, the tell-tale warm glow of an Unbreakable Vow complete surrounded them for a moment before dissipating.

Once it was gone, the Dark Lord pulled him closer by the arm and neck to hiss into his ear. "Complete these tasks and I _might_ bring you back from the dead. Fail, and your time upon this earth is forfeit – one way or another."

He then stepped back, and as he turned and headed briskly towards the door, Severus's left arm was released from behind his back. Rubbing his sore wrist, he sullenly followed the Dark Lord through the winding corridors, up the stairs and into a spacious bedroom.

After a dismissive hand-gesture, the logs inside the hearth was set aflame, and a soft light spread through the room, up to the four-poster bed in the middle of it, where a mass of violently curly black locks poked out from under the dark blue silk duvet. On the bedside table an open silver pocket watch read four a.m. which made Severus cast a dubious look sideways at his lord.

"I shall set to work," he snapped as he walked up to the bed and laid a careful hand on top of Bellatrix's head, refusing to believe that the Dark Lord was suffering from _any_ softness of heart.

"See that you do," the Dark Lord replied quietly. "Here."

Turning around, Severus struggled very hard not to let any of the relief at seeing his wand show. He accepted it with trembling fingers, and immediately set to cleaning his soiled robes and conjuring himself a glass of cold water.

"You shall come find me once you have restored her mind," the Dark Lord stated in parting as Severus downed the entire glass in one go. Once he was done, the Dark Lord was gone, and Severus found himself left to his own devices. After a short toilet break, he sat himself down on Bellatrix's bedside and began.

* * *

"Look, Madam Pomfrey, it's not that I don't appreciate it," Harry said over breakfast in his hospital bed, "but I don't think I need any more potions – or anything really. I feel fine! Honestly!"

The matron huffed and shook her head as she poured some thick concoction into a smaller vial with precise movements. "Oh if I had a galleon for every time I've heard that, Mr Potter – you're just fine, I'm sure. Now be a good lad and drink up. It's only some Pepper-Up Potion, dear boy. It won't do you any harm."

With a sigh of resignation, Harry downed the thick liquid, and handed the vial back to his merciless jailor. "There, now can I –"

Before he could make any request, there was a loud knock coming from the entrance doors, and with a muttered "Yes, knock he door off its hinges, why don't you?", Madam Pomfrey hurried down the room and unlocked them. "Yes?" she said primly once she'd opened the leftmost, efficiently blocking Harry's view outside. Not that he would have been able to see anyways, what with the blurry eyesight caused by the thick frames invading his face.

"Visiting hours?" a cheerful male voice inquired, and with a deep sigh, Madam Pomfrey took a step back.

"Oh why not. Get in, the lot of you."

With a frown and a nervous churn to his stomach, Harry watched a tall balding man in tattered robes step into the room, followed by a plump vaguely familiar woman with a mane of flaming red hair. Pushing through behind them and rushing towards him with shouts of "Harry!" were two _very_ familiar shapes. All air went out of him as Hermione flung herself on top of him and enveloped him in a bear hug.

"Oh Harry, we were so worried! Dumbledore said – and then –"

"What happened? Really?" Ron cut in from behind the masses of hair, and Harry felt him sit down on the mattress at his knees. "Was it Quirrell? I mean really, _him_? Or was it ... you know?"

"Now now, Ronald," a female voice said from the other side of the bed, and looking up, Harry saw it was the plump witch, who looked very kind up close. "Give him some air, dear," she then said and laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder, making her reluctantly let go and stand up straight. "Hello, Harry," the woman said then with a slight shiver to her smile. "I don't know if you remember me. I am Molly Weasley, and this is my husband, Arthur. Ron has told us so much about you."

"I do," Harry replied hoarsely and uncomfortably cleared his throat. "I do remember you, I mean, Mrs Weasley, and thank you _so much_ for the sweater and the fudge at Christmas."

"Oh, you're quite welcome, dear," Mrs Weasley said softly and gave his cheek a quick stroke before she leaned away and looked up at her husband, who smiled and gave a short nod.

"We'd better be off – don't mean to rush off, Harry, but there's an Order meeting you see," Mr Weasley explained before scrunching his face up. "Oh, well, that is ... You see, there's this organization that –"

"Oh Arthur," Mrs Weasley said with a laugh, "there you go again. You'll just confuse the boy –"

"The Order of the Phoenix," Harry said calmly. "So you're in it?"

Everyone blinked down at him for a moment, but Mr Weasley collected himself quickly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we are. So you know about it? Is it ... perhaps your relatives told you that your parents used to ..." As Mr Weasley trailed off, Harry gave a small smile.

"Yeah, that's ... that's why I know."

"Of course it is," Mrs Weasley said with finality before turning to Ron. "Now behave. No mischief – remember, you are still grounded for your stunt before the end of term. And I dare say Harry needs rest."

"Yes, Mum," Ron replied dully as his mother sent him a parting look of warning, followed up with a wink from his father, and then they were alone. "So, will you tell us?" Ron exclaimed excitedly as Hermione sat down in the chair with a worried frown.

"Err, well ... What do you want to know?" Harry replied slowly.

Ever so slowly, paying close attention to what he should and should not reveal, Harry told the story from start to finish. He did tell his friends that he had become the Dark Lord's apprentice, but kept to himself his warm feelings for his master. Calculatingly, and with James's help, he spun the tale so that it seemed as if he'd been fighting the whole time, and that when he had finally been taken away from the island, that he had welcomed it with open arms.

"I was confused," he revealed at long last, shifting his gaze back and forth between his two mesmerized best friends. "It was in the middle of the night ... and I didn't know if m – the Dark Lord ... if he'd set it all up to test me ... I just ran, from everyone. And eventually, I woke up here. Back at Hogwarts."

"Oh Harry," Hermione whimpered and blinked against the tears in her eyes.

"So he saved you? Dumbledore did?" Ron said with awe, looking quite impressed with his hero. "He fought ... _You-Know-Who_ ... and then brought you back here?"

"Actually," Harry said, "it wasn't Dumbledore, but Healer Abbott who fought with mas – with the Dark Lord."

"What is it you keep almost saying?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Ma-something."

"Err, well ..." Harry said reluctantly. "It's just ... It's just that he made me call him something."

"What?" Ron asked, leaning forwards in intrigue.

After some reluctance, but finding nothing else to say, Harry caved in. "Master," he whispered and watched his friends' faces scrunch up in disgusted pity.

"Blimey," Ron exclaimed with loathing. "He actually forced you to do stuff?"

"Yeah," Harry lied, feeling a sting of regret doing so. Telling his tale had been rather easy, as his friends had only listened quietly and gasped in the right places, but right out giving a false reply to a question was much harder. He'd always trusted his friends with everything, but now, he strongly suspected they wouldn't be quite as understanding as they had been before. _It's not like I can bring them with when I escape after all_ , he thought sombrely, and found some relief in the fact that James immediately agreed with him.

"Like what?" Ron whispered while Hermione looked right about ready to cry.

"I ..." Harry began, but his aching throat refused to make any sound. At last, he looked to the side and let out a deep breath. "It's not that I don't want to tell you," he invented. "It's just that I _can't_. I'm forbidden to reveal his secrets."

"Forbidden with magic?" Hermione breathed out, and Harry nodded slowly.

"A magically binding contract," he said, and Ron stared wide-eyed at him.

"Bloody hell – like an Unbreakable Vow?"

"Something like that," Harry said with another nod.

After another few carefully asked questions from his friends, Harry steered conversation in the opposite direction, inquiring after his friends' past three weeks. Ron reluctantly told him of his mother's explosion upon learning of what he'd done the night of Harry's disappearance. Upon coming home, he'd been sent to his room, and was to be under house-arrest for a month. So far, his days had apparently mainly consisted of doing chores in their rickety house – mending, cleaning and sorting stuff inside and outside in the garden.

As Ron told of his many adventures with Garden Gnomes, a Ghoul living in the attic right above his bedroom, the old family owl Errol crashing into windows, etcetera, Harry couldn't help but wonder at the Weasley family's apparent poverty.

"But I don't understand," he said after a lengthy string of complaints about the fact that Percy had received a brand new set of robes for his birthday while Ron himself had been stuck with his older brothers' hand-me-downs for as long as he could remember. "Why couldn't your parents get you new robes too? Is it because you've been grounded?"

Blushing scarlet, Ron looked down at his lap and stammered: "N-no, it isn't like that exactly ... It's just that ... It's because we're poor, Harry. I thought you knew..."

Harry blinked in utter incomprehension. "But _why?_ You're wizards, aren't you?"

"Yeah, so?" Ron asked, looking up with a matching look of confusion.

" _So_ ," Harry said, "why can't they just Conjure or Transfigure some fabric and then make the robes themselves? There must be some spells for that. And why can't they just banish the Ghoul or repair the house so that each floor doesn't need to be stacked on each other."

"I'm sure, Harry, that they could," Hermione said with care as though treading on glass, "only ... I think it takes rather powerful wizards to get something like that right –"

"Mum and Dad _are_ powerful wizards, Hermione," Ron bit out with a furious glare over his shoulder. "All Weasleys are."

"But then I ... I don't understand either, Ron," Hermione said with wonder. "Why else wouldn't they –"

"Look, it's not ... something we like to talk about," Ron stammered, blushing worse than ever.

Harry and Hermione met eyes over Ron's bowed head, and after a prompting nod from Hermione, Harry asked. "Please would you tell us?"

After a deep sigh, Ron started talking. "It's because of a _curse_ , that's what. That's why us Weasleys, born or married into the family, are doomed to be poor. It happened pretty long ago, in 1816. Back then, the Weasley family was one of the wealthiest in all of Wizarding Britain. The Malfoys, though, had been very wealthy, but had lost most of it. I don't know why – but they were many, on the other hand, while the Weasleys were very few. So, the families had been rivals for a long time, and now that they had lost all their money, the Malfoys were very jealous of the Weasleys. That was when Septimus Malfoy decided to curse the Weasley family using some very _Dark_ magic to do so. I don't know what it was exactly, but it had to do with destroying our wealth and restoring the Malfoys'. After that, things started to fall to pieces around my ancestors. Things broke when they used them, they became extremely unlucky, lost a lot of money and, worst of all, their magic often backfired on them. It doesn't have to do with power – it just has to do with _things_. Like clothes, and stuff for the house. The Malfoys, though, became rich again.

"Of course, when my ancestors found out that it had been the Malfoys cursing them, they and their friends set to curse those bastards right back. That's why the Malfoys have, ever since been very few, and we Weasleys have been very many. It's only that, now that it's been so long, we Weasleys don't have any money left, and things are just turning into total crap. My brother Bill is actually in Egypt right now, working as a Curse Breaker and trying to figure out a way to destroy it. But it's hard. No-one's been able to do it so far."

"Not even Dumbledore?" Hermione whispered, and promptly, Ron's ears turned scarlet.

"I don't think Dad's even asked him ... I think he might be too embarrassed to."

"But if it's such an old curse," Harry said, "I don't see why he shouldn't know about it."

"I don't know," Ron muttered. "Suppose he's tried?"

"And failed?" Hermione said with scepticism. "But he's the most powerful wizard alive!"

"He's not!" Harry hissed before having a chance to stop himself, and quickly backtracked when his friends send dubious looks at him. "I mean, I don't know if he is – but anyway, I don't think he could have tried or you'd definitely know about it."

"I guess?" Ron said hesitantly and then shrugged. "Perhaps he's working on something but hasn't told anyone about it yet – he's off his rocker, haven't I told you?" Ron said, looking proud and giving another shrug. "That's why, anyway. We're all hoping that Bill will sort it out eventually."

"What about the Malfoys?" Harry asked, receiving surprised looks from both his friends. "They kept losing numbers?"

"They're practically extinct by now," Ron said pitilessly. "As far as I know, it's only Malfoy, his parents and grandfather left. Guess it's up to him if there'll be any more of them. Good riddance, I say."

"Ronald!" Hermione exclaimed reprovingly. "That's a terrible thing to say!"

"Whatever, Hermione," Ron muttered with a sneer. "They're right bastards the lot of them – they're true evil if I ever saw any."

 _There is no good or evil_ , rang through Harry's mind and he had to bite his teeth together to remain silent on the subject. "So, what have you been up to Hermione?" he asked instead.

At once, Hermione's sad eyes pierced him. "What do you think? I've been bending over backwards trying to figure out a way to get you back, or find you for a start, that's what."

"You ..." Harry hardly believed his ears. "You've been looking ... for me?"

"Of course I have," Hermione huffed. "I left you, Harry. I ... I left you behind and ran for safety. It felt like _I_ was responsible for it all when you disappeared. Maybe, if I'd been there –"

"No," Harry said sharply, a deep sadness taking hold of him as he stared at his remorseful friend. "It is _not_ your fault – that goes for both of you. Look, I don't want you _blaming_ yourselves, because I –" He cut himself off, dangerously close to confessing it all – how he'd not been in danger at all, and how he'd been treated good – better than he could remember ever being before. How he'd learned so much, and how he'd found a place he couldn't wait to return to.

"I can't help it," Hermione said tearfully. "We didn't know if you were hurt or lost or d-d-dead ... We couldn't just do nothing!"

"You looked too?" Harry whispered, turning to Ron, who stared back at him with valour burning in his eyes.

"Of course!" he exclaimed as if he were offended Harry would even ask. "Well I couldn't do much, what with being confined to my room most of the time ... But I exchanged letters with Hermione, and I, you know, lurked about the house, listening to my parents talk. They're in the Order, as you heard, and I learned a couple of things. Nearly got my ass handed to me by Fred and George at one point – but when they figured out what I was up to they actually helped too. They managed to sneak a couple of documents out of Dad's drawers, and they could listen in on his Floo Calls far easier than I."

"Whenever Ron found something out, I would go by Floo to different locations, snooping for clues," Hermione said, continuing where Ron left off. "Of course, we never found anything, but we never gave up. Not even after those _blasted_ Aurors stopped searching."

"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed with surprised delight.

"What?"

Ron grinned at her and have a wink. "Never knew you could talk like a normal person, that's all."

As his friends started bantering, and a flavour of normalcy settled into their conversation, Harry started feeling more and more left out. He had successfully isolated himself in his cluster of lies, and his friends, who had missed him so much, weren't even aware of how much he wished to leave them once again and return to the man whose name they were too afraid to speak. _Can't I please tell them?_ he begged soulfully. _Only them? I'm sure that if I can make them understand ... they'll listen. Perhaps they can help?_

" _They won't understand, Harry,_ " James replied solemnly, and Harry's heart ached with the truth.

All throughout the rest of his friends' visit, Harry tried to appear relaxed and happy, joking about and having fun as though nothing was wrong. When Mr and Mrs Weasley finally returned, he was exhausted, and as Hermione wrapped him in a parting hug, he couldn't help making an involuntary shiver.

Having released him, Hermione stood looking into his eyes for a prolonged moment, before giving a sad smile. "You're so different," she whispered, low enough for only him to hear. "I know that you must have been through ... I can't even imagine ... But Harry, know that you are safe here. We are all so glad that you are back. We won't let him take you away again."

Swallowing thickly, Harry forced himself to smile thinly and wrapping his friend into another hug. "Thank you," he whispered, grateful despite it all for Hermione's affection and loyalty.

After they all had left, Harry sat quietly in his assigned bed, contemplating the way his life had turned on its end. _I managed to fool them, didn't I?_

" _You did very well,"_ James assured him. " _They won't suspect a thing, although I know how little comfort that is to you._ "

With renewed resolve, refusing to let his wicked deception be for nothing, Harry returned to his studies, keeping his glasses high up on his nose and reading under the rim of them, just to make sure Madam Pomfrey remained oblivious.

* * *

Night had fallen when he finally found himself unwatched. Wrapped in a thick, black cloak, hood up, he arrived in the outskirts of the little Muggle town where he grew up. Abbotsbury lay peacefully quiet before him, softly glowing lights in the windows bringing life to the picturesque stone buildings. Casting a sorrowful sideways glance at his sister's house, a little off the side of the village centre, Quirinus closed his eyes, and focused on pictures from a happier time.

He pushed through the deep devastation with difficulty, breaking down into sobs when sweet memories of friendships long gone flashed before his eyes, and the incantation tore out of his mouth in a broken wail. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

In a flash of silvery mist, his skittish hare Patronus jumped into existence, and sat up on its hind legs at his feet, ears standing at attention. After he had given it its message, and watched it jump out of sight in another flash of silver, he stood gazing at his sister's house, trying and failing to rein in his emotions.

He didn't understand. _He didn't understand_ what had gone wrong. Well, he _did_ understand in a way – the Dark Lord had given an involved account of his many missteps, and yet, it had come upon him like a bolt from the blue. His left arm still ached from where his Dark Mark had been scorched off, and his heart ached with the loss of all progress he'd made.

 _You could be great you know_ , the Dark Lord had said, and it was with a blindingly intense fury Quirinus found himself in a web of lies. _Was this his plan all along? Or have I truly failed at such a rate?_ Quirinus didn't see it, even though he knew the cause. Instead, intense hatred filled him up, and when a distinct _crack_ sounded behind his back, he wore a dark glare on his face as he turned around.

"Good evening, Quirinus," Dumbledore said airily, standing tall and proud as ever, looking guarded, and just like that, all Quirinus's confidence left him. Terror filled him, and he wondered at once what he'd _done_.

"A-A-A-A-Albus," he managed as he tore the hood off his head and fell to his knees in front of his old mentor's feet. "Forg-g-g-give m-me – _please_ forg-give me."

It was like all his nightmares combined into one – desperation had made him forget, foolishly, how deeply he had betrayed the man before him.

"Forgive you?" Dumbledore said with stark surprise – none of his former kindness present at all in his voice, and the harshness of its absence made Quirinus tremble. "I am afraid I cannot, my old friend. You have fallen much too deeply."

" _Please_ ," Quirinus repeated desperately, skidding forwards on his hands and knees so that he could clutch at the hems of Dumbledore's colourful robes. " _I n-n-never meant_ – I SWEAR – p-p-p-p-please, Al-l-lbus, you _must_ believe m-m-me."

"Must I?" Dumbledore said and raised his eyebrows. "I am afraid you have not given me any reason to trust you, Quirinus."

"N-n-n-no," Quirinus whimpered as Dumbledore stepped back from him and started to walk away. "No w-w-wait, please, _Albus_ , th-th-th-th-the D-d-d-dark L-l-l-l-l-lord – he _tricked m-me_ – _took me, against my will_."

"Very much like you took young Harry Potter against his will," Dumbledore returned, standing still facing the village.

"N-n-no _never_ – I w-would _never_ , Albus, _please_ listen to me," Quirinus sobbed, somehow finding it both harder and easier to speak with his audience's back turned. "I was _possessed_ – he p-p-possessed me and _made_ me – I _never_ took P-P-P-Potter, _or_ the Stone."

"What you fail to understand – or perhaps you just cannot face it – is that you _chose_ to let Lord Voldemort use you to save your own skin, Quirinus."

Trembling violently at hearing his master's forbidden name spoken, Quirinus let out a wail reminiscent of that of a wounded animal. He couldn't get any words out, only terrible broken sounds voicing his agreement. He _knew_ it was true. He was weak. So terribly weak.

"Is this remorse, Quirinus?" Dumbledore asked from right in front of him, apparently having turned back around at some point.

"Yes," Quirinus managed brokenly between guttural sounds, staring up at his old mentor with eyes completely clouded with tears.

After a long while during which Dumbledore did nothing other than watch Quirinus break in front of him, he finally spoke again. "If this is true, and not a trick ... If you truly wish to repent ... What can you offer as tribute?"

"Anything!" Quirinus gasped at once. "I'd give _anything_ – please – I s-s-s-swear – look –" With great effort, he pulled up his left sleeve and showed the bare forearm to Dumbledore. "I p-p-promise, Albus, there i-i-is _no_ l-l-loyalty left for _him_."

As he held his breath, holding his devastation back in favour of desperate hope, his vision cleared with the drying tears, and to his great disbelief, he saw that Dumbledore was gracing him with a kind smile.

* * *

"... Mr Harry Potter, sir! You musts wakes up, Mr Harry Potter."

Giving a disagreeing groan, Harry rubbed at his eyes and struggled into a sitting position, shooting a sideways glare at his master's house-elf. He was just about to reprimand him when he blinked wide awake and sat bolt upright with the realisation. "Dobby!" he exclaimed and grabbed hold of the lanky elf's upper arms. "Have you come for me?"

"Yes, Mr Harry Potter, sir, Dobby has," Dobby said proudly and blinked up at Harry with watery eyes.

"Master sent you to get me?" Harry asked then, hurriedly letting go of the elf and climbing out of bed, lighting his wand at once to start rummaging the trunk at the end of the bed for some clothes.

"Master?" Dobby asked uncertainly.

"The Dark Lord," Harry clarified as he tore off his pyjamas and started dressing.

"Dobby has no master, Harry Potter, sir – not anymore."

"... Excuse me?" Harry managed, freezing half-way done pulling on his left sock.

Standing tall, looking positively giddy, Dobby made a twirl to show off the much too large black cloak he was wearing around his shoulders, which Harry just now paid any attention to. "Severus Snape gifted Dobby with clothes. Dobby is a _free_ elf, Harry Potter, sir, and Dobby has come to save you without any orders from a master."

"Well then, what do you _mean_ when you say you're going to save me, Dobby?" Harry asked carefully, slowly picking up on getting dressed.

Dobby beamed, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Dobby does not know, but Dobby is sure that Harry Potter himself knows where to go to be safe from wicked people who wants to do harm to him."

Grinning, Harry retrieved his shrunken Invisibility Cloak and swiftly enlarged it. "He sure does, Dobby. He knows exactly where to go. But first, you must help me get out of here – do you know a way?"

"Dobby knows," Dobby said with an excited nod. "But we's must hurry, Harry Potter, sir."

"I'm right behind you," Harry promised as he wrapped his cloak around him, took a firmer hold of his wand, and followed Dobby through the suddenly unlocked double doors and into the darkness.


	28. Chapter 28

**Warning Signs Read Desolation**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

* * *

PREVIOUSLY

 _Severus was taken out of his cell to see Voldemort, who forced him into an Unbreakable Vow, forcing him to swear that he would strive to redeem himself, cure Bellatrix, and kill Dumbledore. Afterwards, he was taken to Bellatrix's room and immediately set to work._

 _Harry was reunited with Ron and Hermione, whom he successfully fooled into thinking he was all but sad to be back at Hogwarts. Harry, for his part, learned that his friends had never given up on him, but had kept looking for him without anybody knowing about it._

 _In the middle of the night, Harry was awoken by Dobby, who said he had come to rescue him._

* * *

Outside of the carefully maintained Hospital Wing, the castle's stone corridors lay cold and desolate, cast in the deepest of darkness. Keeping as quiet as he could, Harry made sure to stay a little way behind the tail of Dobby's flapping cloak, just in case they ran into someone.

 _The first thing to do when entering a room_ , Harry thought, nervously looking this way and that, _is to find your entrances and exits_. Heart hammering in his chest, his ears straining to pick up the barest sound, he looked first over his shoulder and then further ahead. _There's where we came from – I suppose Madam Pomfrey's asleep in her room somewhere close to the Hospital Wing. There are some doors along the corridor, but I suppose those are just classrooms or storage rooms, so no-one should come from there. But I suppose they could come from further down the corridor … There are no fireplaces and it's impossible to Apparate inside Hogwarts, and I don't suppose they'll be crashing through the windows ... we'll soon be at the Grand Staircase …_

A sudden set of dull _bangs_ and a resounding _crash_ made him whip around and raise his wand at the dark opening he'd come from. Barely daring to breathe, he backed slowly away from the Hospital Wing, taking in the eerie quiet that had followed the sharp sounds as he felt behind him for Dobby.

"Mr Harry Potter, sir," the elf hissed behind him as his hand closed around what felt like one of Dobby's floppy ears. "Careful, you must follow Dobby –"

The sudden rustle as a dark shape tore out of the doorway had Dobby shrieking in fright. A series of Stunning Spells left Harry's wand, zooming red over and around the surprisingly small shape, which didn't stop but came straight at him, as though seeing right through the Invisibility Cloak.

Blindly, Harry stumbled backwards, holding his arms up in front of his face. Just as the thing dug its small talons into his left forearm, unexpectedly, a soothing feeling radiated into him and made him pause.

" _Wait!_ " James exclaimed just as the eyes of the ink black raven flashed red.

"Master?" Harry whispered in disbelief and stared as the raven gave a very slow nod before spreading its wings and leaping in one graceful movement from his arm over to his shoulder, where it poked its beak under Harry's cloak and covered itself with it.

Feeling the comforting weight of his master on his left shoulder, Harry felt a surge of confidence as he turned to urge Dobby to get them going – but the elf was staring up at him with a horrified expression.

"Dobby?" Harry hissed as loudly as he dared. "What is it?"

Shakily, the elf pointed up at where the raven had hid, his eyes big as saucers. "Did Harry Potter say … _'master'_?"

"No," Harry lied, heart hammering against his ribcage. "No, I … That's not what I said."

It was clear by the look in his eyes that Dobby didn't believe a word of that, but was anxiously twinning his hands together and shaking his head. "No … But Dobby promised … _promised_ to do Dobby's best … His old masters … but Dobby is a free elf now … Dobby can do it. Mr Harry Potter should choose … but then … but then … he'd be going _back_ , after everything … not there, not that place … anywhere would be better … It's not right … _It's not right_!" Pressing his huge eyes together, Dobby started hitting his own head with his fists. "It's not right! It's not right! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

"Dobby!" Harry hissed between his clenched teeth, casting a worried glance behind him at the distant sound of voices coming from the Grand Staircase. "Come on, we need to go! _Now_!"

Obviously hearing the voices approaching too, the elf stilled with a strange expression, looking up at Harry's hidden face with lowered ears. "No," he whimpered and shook his head so that his ears flapped. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth opened wide in a piercing shriek. "HELP! UP HERE! HE'S UP HERE! HE'S ESCAPING!"

With deadly intent, the bird swept off Harry's shoulder, its talons outstretched as it dived at Dobby's head and _scratched_. The elf screamed bloody murder, and to the growing clamour from the staircases Harry shakily raised his wand and whispered " _Stupefy_!"

Breathlessly, and decidedly not looking at the stunned and scratched elf, Harry broke into a run, backtracking down the winding corridor, flying past the Hospital Wing and continuing down the opposite end of the corridor. The sound of voices and footfalls soon grew quieter as he ran, and he guessed that whomever was chasing him had found Dobby. In an effort not to make too much noise, Harry slowed down into a brisk walk, and hurriedly covered his mouth against a startled scream when the raven zoomed past his left shoulder and ahead down the dark corridor.

" _Run_!" James urged as the clamour rose behind him once more. " _There's no other way you could have gone, so there's no point in trying to hide._ "

 _But I'm invisible_ , Harry thought as he bolted down the corridor, passing door after door as he followed close behind the raven.

" _Yes but some wizards can see through Disillusionments and even Invisibility Cloaks!_ "

With a sickening churn to his stomach, Harry remembered the disfigured man from the forest, and how he'd had no apparent difficulty finding him behind that tree trunk.

"POTTER!" a deep male voice shouted from behind him, and fearfully twisting his head around, Harry saw a tall and strong-looking black wizard round the corner at break-neck speed. "STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

Harry didn't. Running more quickly than he'd ever done during any of Dudley's Harry Hunting sessions, he came out on the opposite side of the Grand Staircase, staring at the raven, which quickly swooped down towards the Ground Floor and into the darkness. Not thinking, Harry recklessly leapt onto a moving set of stairs that was on the way downwards, and landed painfully on his hip. Biting his teeth together and disregarding the instantly blossoming ache, he got back up on his feet and fearfully looked up to the arched doorway, where the pursuers appeared one by one.

Hit with a rush in inspiration, not knowing whether the recollection of his first lesson with Voldemort came from James or from himself, Harry raised his wand, pointed it over the heads of the Order members and whispered " _Diffindo!_ "

With a great clatter, one of the room's enormous and ancient wrought iron chandeliers broke free from its bonds and crashed down to the floor. The brown-haired woman and Mr Lupin threw themselves to the ground, but the dark-skinned wizard made a swiping movement with his wand, and the chandelier flew off the side of the ledge before it could do any damage.

But by then, Harry had reached the bottom of the staircase and was running once more, following closely behind the raven, feeling a rush of triumph as he reached the Entrance Hall and caught sight of the grand gates leading to the Hogwarts Grounds. _Just a little more_ , he thought as he ran, his footsteps echoing eerily in the vast and cold room.

He had reached the middle of the hall when the huge doors suddenly split open, and as he faltered into a halt, he saw a man step over the threshold and dismissively flick his wand at the raven as he lazily, almost boredly, drawled " _Excoquam a Peccatum_." A gust of swirling air flew at the bird and around it, and instantly, it went lax and fell with a dull thud to the cold stone floor.

"NO!" tore out of Harry's throat as he raised his wand and started backing away. He keenly kept his eyes locked on the wizard, but the man didn't look back at him. Instead, he flashed a terrifying smile, visible under his long silver goatee, and started undoing the straps of his garnet red travelling cloak.

"Hello Harry," he said in a surprisingly aged voice, clashing with his sharp blue gaze and agile posture. At his feet, the raven stirred and flapped its wings until it was back upon its feet. Then, with the startled movements of a wild animal, it took off into the air and swept hurriedly out through the open door behind the wizard.

With a hateful glare, Harry took a bold step forwards, desperation making him blindly disregard Voldemort's words, echoing over and over in his head. _You would flee. You always flee. You are much too important to risk getting overpowered, captured or killed._

" _Petrificus Totalus_!"

Laughing coldly, the man finally looked at him and simply threw up a Shield Charm, making the spell ricochet back at its caster, whom it hit with deadly accuracy. Freezing up, Harry fell headlong to the floor, and landed painfully on his back with no means at all to move an inch.

"Silly boy," the man said as his slow footfalls came closer and closer. "Where are you trying to run? Hm? Back to your kidnapper, I suppose?" With another swipe of the wizard's wand, the strap of the Invisibility Cloak flew open, and the fabric unfolded so that it lay under his frozen body, completely useless.

Eyes clouded with hatred for the man who got in his way – _who appeared out of nowhere_ – Harry listened as he came closer and finally stood over him with an utterly disinterested look on his face. "What happened to this place that they cannot even keep one silly little boy in check?" he muttered to himself as he peeled off his brown leather gloves, working quickly and yet methodically, pulling at one finger at the time.

Harry wanted to snap back – to bite and kick – but remained frozen in place, staring up at the ceiling with a constant snarl on his face, mind running amok with vicious thoughts. Who was this man? What did he want? And where had he come from in the middle of the night?

A clatter was heard from the staircase behind them, and with a deep sigh, the man murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "Now there's the babysitters."

"Sir!" a female voice called, and the sound of rushing feet echoed in the vast room. "Did you see a boy?"

"He's right here," the wizard announced listlessly and took a step out of Harry's line of vision.

"Harry!" a male voice Harry vaguely recognised called, and a moment later, a harried Mr Lupin appeared kneeling by his side. "Are you hurt?" When no answer was forthcoming, Lupin twisted his head around to look up at the older wizard. "Is he hurt?" he repeated urgently.

"He was merely hit by his own Petrification Curse. He is right as rain, I'm sure."

Lupin's concerned expression twisted into a scowl, and after he had waved his wand and muttered " _Finite_!", he dug a generous piece of chocolate out of his robe pocket at held it out at Harry, who ignored it in favour of debating whether or not he could chance rushing for the door before it closed.

" _It's too late,_ " James dictated solemnly. " _We'll find another way_."

With a defeated sigh, Harry carefully took the chocolate with a murmured "Thanks," and grabbed hold of the Invisibility Cloak before arising.

"What in Merlin's name were you trying to do?" Mr Lupin asked with a deeply concerned face, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder that was probably supposed to be comforting, but which Harry merely found restrictive.

"An excellent question, Remus," a merry voice said, and looking over at the arched doorway leading to the Grand Staircase, Harry saw Professor Dumbledore, closely followed by the wizard who had chased him down the corridors. "But one that can wait until the morning, I think. Ah, Nicolas!" Dumbledore suddenly exclaimed, looking with surprise at the completely disinterested wizard standing a little away from the others, brushing lint away from the travelling cloak in his arms.

"Good evening, Albus," he drawled and stepped forwards. "I'd hoped to get here sooner, but Perenelle insisted I rest." He gave a little chuckle. "I'm sure she'll be in a right fit when she gets here – tomorrow, as we had planned."

"Ah, so you have recovered, I hope?" Dumbledore replied merrily, to which Nicolas – whom Harry, remembering at once his research on the Philosopher's Stone, supposed had to be Nicolas Flamel – scoffed.

"There's no need for concern; I have been inhabiting a body not my own for weeks. _This one_ is perfectly healthy."

"Eat," Mr Lupin murmured softly at Harry and gave his shoulder a short squeeze. "You'll feel better."

Looking down at the floor, faking remorse, Harry nibbled on the rather large chunk of food and felt, at once, a rush of warmth spread in trickles all down his body.

"Feel better," Flamel scoffed and, timidly looking up, Harry saw the narrow-eyed sneer sent in his direction. "What nonsense is this? That boy should be behind locks and bars. Don't tell me you've been coddling him?"

Stunned silence reigned for a moment before Lupin straightened and puffed out his chest. "Harry has been through quite the ordeal. He needs _care_ and guidance…"

Lupin broke off at Flamel's cold laugh, and Harry felt a sting of panic, watching the ancient wizard shake his head. "You deluded fools. I have watched that boy trail after Lord Voldemort like an infatuated puppy. He's been taking lessons, sitting in on meetings and participated in dark rituals, which included the brutal sacrifice of a young wizard who had not yet had the chance to grow into his hat."

"All very terrible things young Harry have had to live through, no doubt," Dumbledore said calmly with a serene smile which, despite it all, made Harry's racing heart slow its rhythm.

With a derisive sneer, Flamel scoffed and shook his head. "Have it your way, Albus. It's your student."

Dumbledore merely kept smiling, before gesturing towards the staircases with a great sweeping movement of his left arm. "Your chambers have been prepared. Mr Filch, here –" From behind one great stone pillar in the end of the room the skulking caretaker appeared, sharp-eyed cat at his side. "– will take you there, and see that you have everything you need."

"Very well," Flamel said and moved towards Filch, who had already slipped away towards the Grand Staircase.

Once passing Professor Dumbledore, Flamel paused and gave his friend a hard, meaningful glare. "At least talk some sense into the boy if you will not punish him. Mark my words, Albus; that boy is not as innocent as he might seem."

"I find," Dumbledore responded serenely, "that very few people are just as they seem from outward appearance alone; an observation to which Harry is, certainly, by no means exempt."

For a moment, it looked like Flamel was about to snap in anger, but then, his expression cleared and he gave an amused little chuckle before starting to walk again. "Goodnight, Albus!" he called as he went.

"Goodnight, Nicolas," Dumbledore called softly back before turning to the group of Order members, gathered in a triangle around Harry. "It is late, my friends, and I suggest you all turn in for the night."

"What about Potter?" the rumbling dark voice of the muscly wizard questioned.

"Oh, Harry is quite safe," Dumbledore said, giving a wink at Harry, "no need to worry. Walk with me, Harry." With an expectant expression, Dumbledore held out his right arm in a beckoning gesture, waiting until Harry had stepped up to him before placing his hand gently at the base of his neck and leading him towards the staircases.

As they travelled up the moving stairs, Dumbledore eventually let go of him and walked a few paces ahead, not uttering a sound. At the second floor, the old headmaster lead the way into the corridor and, following a little behind, Harry looked this way and that, trying to find any plausible escape-rout to keep in mind. It was while doing this that his eyes landed on something quite startling. A short gasp escaped him, but he quickly looked away so as not to alert Dumbledore to the little girl trailing sneakily behind them through the paintings lining the walls. Hope surged alive in his chest, and while Dumbledore cheerfully declared "Bubble-gum!" to a gargoyle, which promptly jumped aside to reveal a spinning staircase, Harry started plotting how to get a chance to speak to her alone.

Upon entering Professor Dumbledore's office for the first time, Harry couldn't help at once comparing it to Voldemort's. In space and shape, it was indeed very similar; both of them situated in a stone tower. Just like Harry's master, Dumbledore kept shelves and cupboards full of odd trinkets and heavy tomes. In the centre of the room, with the chair facing the door, stood a great wooden desk. However, there was no circular table in the middle of the room, and no comfortable blue sofa-group by the fireplace. Neither was there a set of six tanks housing thirty deadly little creatures.

There was one creature though. On a perch by one of the windows sat a regally golden phoenix, looking at him with rather sad eyes. Similarly, covering the entire wall above and around the door were portraits of old wizards and witches, whom were, also, watching him.

Attempting to ignore all sets of eyes, Harry took a seat in the wooden chair in front of the desk and kept his eyes stubbornly locked on his own hands as the headmaster sat down in turn.

"July 23rd, 1938, I believe it was," Dumbledore said slowly, breaking the silence. Hesitantly, Harry looked up. Dumbledore smiled. "The day I first met Tom Riddle."

Despite himself, Harry swiped his tongue over his dry lips once and sat up straighter.

"A dreary Thursday, just before the start of war. I believe it was raining … He lived at an orphanage outside of London; Wool's Orphanage, set up in a former, rather run-down, textile factory." As he leaned back in his chair, Dumbledore's eyes grew distant, and he looked off to the side in reminiscence. "I had just made Deputy Headmaster and was quite eager to prove myself." His lips quirked. "It is the task of the Deputy Headmaster to supervise the applications and acceptances at Hogwarts, and so I was to visit with all of the soon-to-be First Years who were yet unaware of the Magical World. Tom Riddle was one such child."

"You gave him his letter?" Harry breathed out. "Like Hagrid gave me mine?"

"Not quite in the same manner," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "I did not endeavour to chase the poor boy to a desolate island and knock his door down. No. But I did give him his Acceptance Letter, yes."

"What was he like?" Harry hastened to ask, eager to learn more about his master; wondering how he had acted when Harry's own age, and why it was that Voldemort had, on more than one occasion, claimed that they were so very similar.

Dumbledore eyed him carefully. "Lonely," he decided on after a short moment's contemplation. "An outcast. The matron warned me about him before my visit, claiming that he wasn't like the other children, and that he frightened them."

"Because he had magic?"

Dumbledore's gentle smile took on a sad tint. "Yes … and no. It was rather the way he chose to use that magic, rather than the fact that he had it."

"Because he's always been able to use it as he likes," Harry concluded, memories of conversations with his master flitting through his mind.

" _There are, however, some children who learn how to control their subconscious; who can direct their mana flow by will and cast spells without a wand."_

" _You have this sort of magic!"_

" _Indeed."_

"It appeared so," Dumbledore agreed calmly. "He was quite gifted, already at that age, but according to the matron – absolutely awful woman –" Dumbledore added with a reminiscent grin, as though her awfulness was something he recalled with fondness, "he deliberately punished those he disliked, or who had somehow caused him harm."

" _My caretakers were highly religious, and when they heard from the other children that I had done something 'unnatural', and that I had scared or hurt them, they concluded that I was possessed by the devil."_

"What do you mean he punished them, sir?" Harry asked wearily.

Dumbledore, once again, eyed him carefully before speaking. "Most of it I do not know … What I do know isn't very pleasant."

"I want to hear it," Harry said, steeling himself.

"There was a young boy Tom's age called Billy who had a rabbit. That was, until he managed to tick Tom off somehow. The next day, he found it swinging in a noose from the rafters, looking as if it had climbed up and hanged itself."

" _So they locked me up in the attic whenever the other children complained about me, and they repeatedly had a priest come over to cleanse me of sin ... and they kept threatening me that they would send me to an Asylum if I didn't get my act together."_

"How do you know it was him?" Harry said with a suddenly very dry mouth.

"It couldn't have been done anyway other than with magic," Dumbledore said slowly. "And Tom was the only one in that area who could do magic at that time."

"But you don't know," Harry argued stubbornly.

"Does it seem that implausible to you?" Dumbledore returned with raised eyebrows.

" _People must fear the repercussions of weakness and bad behaviour, or they will not respect their betters."_

Harry swallowed thickly and looked away. "So what happened? The day you went to see him, sir?"

"I met what I thought back then was a rather odd but completely normal 11-year-old boy," said Dumbledore eventually, allowing Harry's change of subject without comment. "He was a very independent child, refusing my offer to accompany him on his trip to Diagon Alley. He appeared accustomed to ordering people around and get his way. He was very suspicious and seemed to believe I was a doctor come to take him to some muggle asylum."

Hearing that, Harry's insides tied themselves into knots and he had to close his eyes against an onslaught of pity.

"I also had to warn him off stealing since such behaviour would not be accepted at Hogwarts."

Dully, Harry nodded and re-opened his eyes. "He used to nick things," he murmured as though trying to explain, letting the 'just like me' go unsaid.

"It appeared so," Dumbledore allowed with a sad smile. "None of that transferred at the start of term, though. To all looks and appearances, he was a quiet, gentle orphan with great talent; charmed all his teachers in a heartbeat."

"But not you," Harry said, watching keenly as Dumbledore have a slow nod.

"He tried, with great effort, to make me forget what I had glimpsed back at the orphanage, of course. But it just couldn't be done, to his great agitation."

"I bet," Harry said with a wry smile as his insides burned with affection.

"Harry," Dumbledore said in a rather solemn voice as he leaned forwards against his desk, holding his wrinkled hands together as though in prayer. "Please, listen carefully. It is of utmost import that you are aware that one of Tom Riddle's many talents is – as it has been ever since his youth – his remarkable ability to weave other people into his web of lies and twisted truths."

Looking at Dumbledore's concerned expression, something inside of Harry snapped. "Master doesn't lie to me," he whispered daringly, keeping his gaze boldly locked with Dumbledore's. "Whenever I've asked him something, he's never refused to answer or … or explained something away. He's actually a bit _too_ honest sometimes."

Dumbledore looked back at him, utterly calm. "Do you think that you are in a position in which you can properly evaluate whether what he tells you is truth or lies?"

It took Harry a moment to understand what he'd just been asked, and when he did, he swallowed uncomfortably but stubbornly kept his gaze firm. "I trust him."

"Do you?" Dumbledore returned with raised eyebrows. "May I ask why?"

"I didn't know you needed my permission to ask a simple question, _sir_ ," Harry bit back acidly, his mind filling up with anger at the old headmaster who, for no reason, acted as though the two of them were very close when they had only spoken to one another but two times before.

To his added fury, Dumbledore did nothing more than smile gently at him, as though his outburst had been nothing but a childish attempt at arguing a point. "You are bound together, magically. Of course that would warrant a certain level of trust."

Ice cold fear made Harry's entire body freeze up. "What," he rasped out before clearing his throat. "What do you mean?"

 _He knows!_ Harry thought with desperation, watching Dumbledore's serene expression with growing fear. _He knows I'm a Horcrux! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

Slowly, Dumbledore reached into one of the top drawers of his desk and withdrew a scroll of rolled up parchment. Wearily, Harry watched as he unrolled and held it up to his face, adjusting his half-moon shaped glasses before starting to skim through whatever was written on it.

"Let me see … Yes, here it is. 'During which time this Apprenticeship is in effect, the Apprentice the Master faithfully shall serve, his secrets keep, and his commands obey to the best of his ability'."

Harry's entire thought process screeched to a halt, and he breathed a deep breath of relief before a new, different sort of dread settled into his stomach, twisting it uncomfortably.

"How did you get that?"

Slowly, Dumbledore lowered the parchment and smiled brilliantly at his terrified student. "As you might or might not have figured out, Nicolas has been posing as dear Mr Ilbert Abbott ever since Voldemort's return to the living – an agreement of interest between the two of them, of course. Having Lord Voldemort's trust, 'Healer Abbott' was bestowed with a house-elf –"

"Bleak," Harry breathed out, his mind going haywire.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said happily and continued. "Bleak was assigned to keep an eye on you so that, in case you were ever in immediate danger, Nicolas could come to your aid."

Harry frowned, remembering quite clearly how he'd been ambushed and attacked by Bellatrix Lestrange without any unforeseen aid coming to his rescue.

"She was also to keep an eye on you, to learn, if she could, how we might save you. That was how she came to overhear a conversation you had with Professor Snape, where you told him that you had been forced to sign a contract."

Snape's sour face glaring down at him among the shrubbery sprang immediately to his mind.

" _Was that all he had to do, Potter? Did he simply have to make a couple of threats, and that made you give up?"_

" _He didn't give me a choice, and he made me sign a contract."_

"After that, she looked through Voldemort's office while cleaning and found the contract lying quite openly in a drawer."

Harry remembered his master pulling out that same document when he asked for it, and wondered idly if Voldemort had placed it that openly for Harry's benefit.

"Nicolas could then make a copy and return the original without anybody being any the wiser. The copy, he sent to me."

"So you've known all along," Harry whispered accusingly, "where I've been, what I've done … all of it."

Smiling gently, Dumbledore appeared completely unruffled. "The information I have received has been very sparse and far in between. Nicolas had to be exceedingly careful in his role. As it is, I have done my utmost to rescue you, Harry. To spare you. By whatever means necessary."

"But you didn't!" Harry screamed, flying to his feet. "You didn't _rescue_ me! You _kidnapped_ me! You took me away from the only place I've ever had where there'd been someone who I could rely on. Someone who cared about me and _took care of me_."

"Took care of you?" Dumbledore repeated in obvious surprise, although he seemed otherwise completely unaffected by Harry's tantrum. "Harry, Voldemort was the one who kidnapped you."

"I know he did!" Harry yelled, breathing heavily against an onslaught of conflicting emotions. "I know that! I'm not stupid!"

"Far from it," Dumbledore agreed calmly, not moving a muscle.

"Yeah … right, exactly," Harry said, stumbling at the unexpected agreement. "What I'm saying is that I liked it there. Master took care of me – showed me that I … that I mattered – and I've never had that before. And you took that _away_ from me!"

Slowly, with dawning understanding, Dumbledore nodded. "Seeing that your childhood with your aunt and uncle was not … what one could have hoped for, although necessary at the time … you found a father figure in Lord Voldemort."

"He's not my father," Harry disagreed with a sneer, crossing his arms over his chest. "Or my friend. He made that quite clear … He's my master. Nothing else."

Dumbledore hummed as though agreeing, but Harry could see the disbelief in his expression. For a little while, they both remained silent, studying each other. Eventually, Dumbledore's serene voice broke the silence.

"But you do know that this sense of belonging … and your acceptance of your position, along with the urge to return to your 'master', as you call him … is magic at work."

 _Not just the contract_ , Harry thought to himself, _but a soul connection on top of that._ Outwardly, he just set his jaw and sent Dumbledore a challenging expression. "So?" he said in a drawl that would have earned him a week's worth of detentions with Snape. "What does that matter?"

Dumbledore kept studying him for a bit longer, apparently at a loss for words. Then, with a minute shake of his head, he arose and returned the contract to its drawer. "I do not believe we will get any further tonight. I suggest we rest."

"All right," Harry said, trying to disguise his relief as he hurried towards the door.

"Harry!"

Hearing his name called out, his hand froze on the doorknob. "Yes, sir?" he said, turning around reluctantly.

"I am afraid that you have outstayed your welcome in the Hospital Wing."

Confused, Harry frowned. "I have?"

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore said with a merry smile that made Harry think the old wizard didn't find it so unfortunate at all. "You shall have to make do with my office tonight." With a swinging motion of his wand, Dumbledore transfigured the wooden chair Harry had previously been sitting on into a sturdy-looking, but rather cramped bed.

Harry eyed the stuffy-looking pillow wearily and let out a deep sigh.

* * *

An hour later, a cacophony of snores was heard from the wall of paintings, and Harry lay wide awake, watching the phoenix wearily, waiting for –

"Harry?"

– that!

"Rebecca?" Harry whispered back as loudly as he dared and watched as the little girl sneaked from one portrait to the other, holding her thick skirts high in an effort to make as little sound as possible. Finally, she ended up in a tiny but peaceful landscape painting, standing idly in one of the bookshelves, cramped in between heavy leather-bound books and what looked like a pile of knitted socks.

"Finally," the painted girl huffed and pierced him with a heated glare that made Harry's chest swell with homesickness. "Was it necessary to camp out in a room completely devoid of paintings?"

"Not my choice," Harry said with a grimace. "Woke up in the Hospital Wing and couldn't get out. And I never even knew you could get here. How did you?"

"I've got a portrait in Ravenclaw Tower," Rebecca said with a shrug. "I can travel between it and the one in the east tower of the fortress if I like. I come here sometimes to speak with my sister; and sometimes when Dark Lords keep insisting on me spying for him."

"Your sister?" Harry asked, curious despite himself.

"Helena," Rebecca said with an eye-roll. "Dreadfully boring old ghost by now, not really worth wasting time on mostly."

"Oh," Harry let out and shook himself. "But you said – master sent you here?"

"From time to time," Rebecca replied with another shrug. "He wanted me to infiltrate his opponents, could get rather nasty about it too … but I mostly kept watch on you instead. Much more fun."

"No," Harry hissed, eyeing the slumbering phoenix as he carefully sat up in bed. "No I meant: did master send you to find me _now_? Is there a message?"

"There is," Rebecca said with an unreadable expression.

"Well?" Harry replied, leaning closer in anticipation.

"Do nothing."

"Do nothing," Harry repeated dully, blinking slowly when Rebecca simply gave a short nod. "He wants me to just … stay here?"

"In essence."

"And he didn't say anything more?" Harry pressed urgently. "Nothing at all?"

"He doesn't really say very much at all," Rebecca replied, throwing her hands out. "Mostly just sits in his chair, staring out into nothing."

"He sits doing nothing?" Harry said disbelievingly. He had imagined his master doing a wide variation of things. Just sitting around wasting time wasn't one of them.

"Yes, lots," Rebecca said with a nod. "Sometimes he takes out those little snakes, holding them and hissing at them. Particularly that nearly-black one."

" _It reminds me of you,_ " whispered a memory in Harry's mind, but he shook it off. "But he must be doing _something_ more," he argued heatedly. "Anything! Doesn't he make plans? Isn't he … isn't he going to get me out of here?"

The little girl heaved a deep sigh and said, in an if possible even quieter voice: "I'm not supposed to say anything. He doesn't want you involved in any of it. Like I said – he just wants you to sit tight and wait."

"Oh," Harry let out, feeling at once immensely relieved. "Right. I guess I can do that … Could you tell him that … tell him that I … I miss him," he muttered, blushing and looking away when the girl grinned at him.

"All right," she whispered. "I'll go do that. Goodbye for now, Harry."

"Goodbye," Harry returned before carefully lying back down in bed, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.


End file.
